Mrs. Barns 1#

Mrs. Barns

Mrs. Barns had married John Arnold. Both had been widowed. Both were small town farm stock. I had worked along side John at a small, local steel fabrication shop where many farmers and a few welders from a nearby Caterpillar plant came to work part time during the winter months. Me and a few others worked there after high school. It was good money at the time and a friendly place to work. Hoeing fields and bailing hay had been my first job. But working at Walt’s steel fab shop was actually my first real job.

I learned that John’s farm was as far out on the western edge of town, as where my parents had put down roots, east of town. They had rented an old eighteen hundreds farm house complete with barns and corn cribs in the back sitting on about one hundred and eighty acres. I would learn later at our fiftieth high school reunion that many of my classmates had the false impression that my family had money. Nothing could have been further from the truth. It was a big, three story house with widow walk and a wrap around porch. It was big but by no means a mansion even by standards back in that day.

John, Jim, Walter and Lenny were the four primary farmers who worked at old man Patterson’s growing agriculture oriented, steel fabrication shop. Except for John, I thought Jim, Walt and Lenny were all a lark. Jim had large Indian elephant ears and often explained them by joking that when God was handing out body parts, he had thought he heard “beers” being offered and he had shouted, “I’ll take two large ones.” I liked Jim from the start. Walt was older than the others. His farm was famous for having a barn leaning westward at a nearly a forty-five degree angle, sustained in that position by several poles propping. It was a vain attempt to keep it from falling over but such can be life. Walter had a good laugh, but always with a cigarette in hand. Lenny was more an electrician than a farmer. He had less than a hundred acres which he and his two sons share cropped. He was skinny, walked half hunched over, had a whiny sort of voice and lit one filterless Lucky Strike with the butt of previous one. Both Lenny and Walt would die of emphysema.

John Arnold had twelve hundred acres to keep him busy. This was back when corn pickers picked four rows at a time and harvest took a full two months. With today’s equipment it takes less than two weeks. John was the quiet one. He always sat at the head of the break room table. We all gave him space as he was gruff with us “young upstarts.”

Patterson’s ended the week with a half day on Saturday. I guess I had caught John’s eye because he had asked if I was interested in making a little extra cash. I immediately assumed that meant some sort of farm work. “I’ll pay you five dollars an hour but you’ll be working for the wife. She has some odds and ends she wants done around the house.” Wow! Five dollars an hour? That was almost double the minimum wage that we were earning as high schoolers at the shop. “Sure,” I volunteered. “Can you start next week?” John had asked.

Upon graduating high school, my dad had gifted me with a two door Dodge Phoenix complete with a slant six and three on the tree. Like every boy back then, we would often gather after a game out on some lonely stretch of road to see who had the fastest beater. I must admit, that six had some spunk to it, often beating small block Chevy V-8s.

And so it was the next Saturday after lunch that I drove my black mamba back down the long drive into John Arnold’s grouping of barns, machine sheds and a beautiful two story house. John waved as I got out, wiping his hands on a red hand rag, pointing to the house. “Go around front and ring the doorbell.” It was one o’clock. No time clock needed to be punched in.

I had never met Mrs. Arnold. When she opened the door I introduced myself. “Mrs. Arnold, Hi! I’m Brian and John said you were looking for some help around the house?”

“Birds of a feather,” as my mother was fond of saying. Sizing me up and down, through the screen door, in baritone voice that was as cold and pitiless as my fifth grade teacher’s had been, she barked, “It’s Mrs. Barns. Get that straight right now young man.” Pushing her way out on to the porch. “You see here? John has set up the ladder over there and some scaffolding up here. I want you to scrape off all this old pealing paint. Once you’ve done that, then come see me.” With that she spun on heel and disappeared back into the house.

I suppose most boys my age would have cowered or been off put by Mrs. Barns brashness. However, I was at the age where the immense size of that woman’s breasts dissipated all such thoughts. My brother would be a life time subscriber to Playboy which, when he wasn’t around, gave me opportunity to steal a copy or two and hide in the bathroom salivating over the buxom beauties captured on those glossy pages. But there wasn’t a single woman in all those pages that even came close to what had greeted me at the door on that first meeting of Mrs. Barns.

Most of the hard work had already been done by someone else. All the posts and railing had been reworked to such a degree that they looked new. Some new cedar siding had replaced a few boards around by the entrance to the house. The original siding required very little care before it would be ready for paint. The ceiling of the wrap-around porch, however, was another story. I estimated that it would take me the rest of the afternoon to just get one leg of it scraped to where it would be ready for paint.

To my surprise, around two-thirty, three o’clock, Mrs. Barns popped her head back out the door, looking at my progress before popping back inside. I guess no comment was a good comment. Soon she reappeared.

“Here!” she almost shouted at me. “I made some lemonade for you. I’ll set it here on the ladder.” Walking past me, looking up at what I had been able to scrape, I was given full view of what was standing below me. It was the deepest crevice of female cleavage I had ever imagined. I guess that if you had cut one her breasts off, it would have been the size of a regulation football. My youthful imagination dreamed of what she would look like dressed only in that white heavily stitched bra. Deep crevices on each shoulder were apparent byproducts caused by her bra straps attempting to keep her massive breasts defying the tug of earthly gravity. Standing there looking up with a thumb on her throat, three fingers on her cheek and her pinkie resting on her chin, her eyes suddenly glanced over at me.

She knew. I could tell immediately that she knew. There was that slight twitch in her cheek that told me she had caught me staring at her breasts. She said nothing before turning and once again disappearing back into the house.

It took me three consecutive Saturday afternoons to scrape the entirety of that porch’s ceiling to where it was paintable. Mrs. Barns, without any real observable fanfare, seemed slowly to warm to me. She even once complimented me when the old man came to look for himself. It wasn’t a direct compliment. She merely told her husband that “it’s going well. Don’t you think?” to which a grunt was all that John replied as he drew out his big, on a chain, wallet and handed me a twenty for the days work.

After several Saturdays, I finally graduated to where I painted what remained needing painting on the porch. Ringing the doorbell, I shouted in the open front door, “I’m all done, Mrs. Barns.” Eventually Mrs. Barns came to the door, wiping her hands on a hand towel. She walked the entire porch surveying the completed work. “Brian, you do your generation proud. Good work. John’s gone for the day but he left me the rest of what’s owed you. Come on inside and I’ll get it for you. Also, I just finished baking a cherry cobbler if you’d like some.” I followed Mrs. Barns on into the kitchen which was at the rear of the house. “John’s gone for the day,” had a different ring to it in the tone of her voice.

The smell of the cobbler was pure heaven. Sitting on a cooling racket on the counter next to the stove, was a large circular pan with a brown and yellow top crust.

“It’s my mother’s recipe from the old country. Sit down. Do you drink coffee?”

I replied no and accepted the standard lemonade option. She cut me a large piece of cobbler and apologized for not having any ice cream on hand to go with it. Apparently John was suppose to return with some later that night. She didn’t say much but remained standing as I ate. She then took my plate and sat it in the sink.

“The money is here,” she said turning with it in hand. “You did a fine job, Brian.” I watched as she hesitated. “Brian, John’s not well. He’s got diabetes. A that stays between us -understand?” Taking a deep breath, I watched as she shrugged her shoulders. “Anyway.” She halted as if either chasing her words or chasing whether or not to speak them. “Brian, I couldn’t help but notice the way you look at me.”

Guilt pangs grabbed my undivided attention. In that she was John’s wife, being that he was such the curmudgeon and she such cold temptress, only today showing another side of herself, I feared the worst. I knew she had more than once caught me gawking at her massive breasts. Youthful guilt and fear had me wired and looking towards the door.

I had just turned eight-teen and I wildly guessed her to be in her late fifties, perhaps early sixties because that was John’s age. In being that young, rarely does youth have any true measure of a woman’s age. I just knew she appeared to be older than my own mother. My math teacher in high school was large breasted. I suppose she was my first crush on an older woman. My mom baby sat her son during the school year which only led to me to have further contact with her after school all of which led only to further feed my fantasies. But Mrs. Barns was on a whole other level.

To my utter surprise (or should I say, udder surprise) Mrs. Barns began unbuttoning the heavy woolen jacket she had on. Underneath was a plain white blouse that was sheer enough to envision the large heavily circular stitched bra underneath. She hung the jacket on chair across from me. We surveyed each other in some pursuit of divining the other’s thoughts. Perhaps the licking of my mouth because of a remaining glaze of that cobbler set it all in motion. Perhaps it was because my eyes danced between looking up at her eyes before returning to gawk at her chest. Whatever it was, an unheard of thing in at that day and age occurred.

Mrs. Barns pulled the her bottom hem of her blouse out from her skirt and began by first unbuttoning her sleeves before slowly unbuttoning her blouse. First she undid the two bottom buttons before beginning to unfasten the top buttons slowly and yet without much hesitancy. Having unfastened all but one button at mid-waist, smiling at me, Mrs Barns grabbed hold of the two top posts of the chair across from me and leaned forward. They were even larger than I had imagined.

“This stays between you a me,” she stated all the while as I nodded in complete agreement with quick little head movements. Rising back up she finished unfastening the last of the blouses buttons. “You can come over and touch them if you like,” Mrs. Barns offered.

Two months shy of my nineteenth birthday. Two weeks away from Homecoming. Football and autumn leaves were in the air. The air outside was crisp but inside it was comfortably warm in the oven heated kitchen.

I’d had a girlfriend or two by that time in my life but I had never been granted the opportunity now being offered -the touching female breasts. That sort of thing girls at my school simply had never allowed. But a new era was about to be embarked upon and perhaps Mrs. Barns was first evidence of it coming to Who’s Ville.

Opening her blouse to either side of those massive, without further encumbrance I, with an open-mouth, gawked unabashedly at her white heavily stitched cloth clad breasts. The war baton hiding in my jeans was at full attention. Slipping off first one shoulder strap and then the other, the indentations caused by her bra strap were an inch wide and a quarter inch deep. Truly her breasts were both massive in size and massive in weight.

Being the typical dermatological disaster that I was, I had never even remotely considered just how heavy the fat of a woman’s breast could actually be. At a young age I had become something of a connoisseur of women’s under things that hung on clothes lines out back of most houses. With the very very rare exception, most all women’s under garments at that time were white and most bras were conically stitched just like the garment Mrs. Barns had on. Because of the exceptional size of Mrs. Barns’ breasts, a heavy, vanilla colored elastic support ban ran underneath each cup before curving up between each of the cups. Strictly supporting the breasts underneath, the top half of the garment left her breasts in a semi-translucent revelation.

Not even as an opportunistic walking-home-late-at-night voyeur, had I ever seen a woman, a mature, grandmotherly woman, so selflessly exposed. She was offering me not just the sight of it but to tactilely join the ranks of manhood. Hesitatingly, my hand reached out and touched the top of the impenetrable garment before sliding down underneath it. To my amazement, even in the confines of the garment, I could tell it would take two hands to lift even a single breast.

Mrs. Barns sighed at the touch as I, whether real or imagined evidenced growing taut nipples within. Though her nipples was hidden by the lone seam that ran horizontally halfway across each cup, the dark amber of areola shadows were not. How did this woman manage to walk so upright carrying the weight of these mammoths day after day, I could not fathom.

I had never imagined Mrs Barns ever having giggled once in her life. From first introduction the woman had imprinted on my mind what black and white pictures of female Nazi guards at some women’s concentration camp were portrayed as. Stoic, heartless, military goose stepping fräuleins. However, as my hand began enjoying coursing over that stiff fabric, more and more playfully, the woman not only giggled, but shivered and laughed before grabbing me by the neck, turning to fully face me, and pulling me forcefully down between her breasts. So this was what heaven was like!

As her hands rubbed my face side to side, my hands naturally captured each side of her breasts and collapsed them in on my face. Oh what a wonderful way to suffocate.

I can’t exactly remember what happened after that. Somewhere in that ecstasy she had unfastened the garment, revealing the entire bulk of her ‘mommyeries’. I entered into a dream world that no Playboy magazine had ever offered me. Mrs. Barns, too, began a journey into her own secret world. Her invitation into the real world of unimaginable female breast feasting soon caused her whole body to twist and turn as her breathing became loud with deep gasps of breath and voiced commands.

Apparently not satisfied with my obeisance to her commands, Mrs. Barns suddenly pushed me away while standing up. Grasping the waist of her green woolen skirt with her right hand, her left hand unzipped the side zipper, letting it fall to floor. Underneath were a large pair of white, non-imagination producing shorts. Panties? I couldn’t grant them the latter descriptive. But as quickly as she had discarded her skirt, so too the shorts fell to the floor as she maneuvered herself to sit back up on that large kitchen table. A white, thickly stitched open-crotch girdle with garters as wide as her bra straps had been, tugged at the less than sheer hose.

“Take your pants off,” I heard her say before asking, “Have you ever….” She didn’t have to finish her sentence as my head was shaking side to side with an emphatic “No!” The erection of my manhood sprang out like a breaching whale as I clumsily dropped my pants and shorts. However old Mrs. Barns actually was, it was evident to me that no razor had ever touched anywhere above her thick, muscular thighs. Unable to wait for my hesitant entrance into her game, Mrs. Barns leaned back on one hand while spreading her legs wide and tugging on the thicket of pubic hair with her free hand.

I don’t recall if she commanded me, begged me or in anyway enticed me but the invitation was without question. Oh, how can I ever explain the sensation? That liquid warmth. That silk and satin of liquid ooze as I penetrated her motherhood. In a language and accent I had never heard from her before, Mrs. Barns began talking to me. Sometimes she would slip back into English with that heavy accent asking, teasing me, “You like it? You like?” as her legs wrapped around me driving me deeper and deeper into her sop.

As any virgin man boy would have, it only took me a half dozen thrusts into her wet, oozing womb before I began my own vocal shouts. She knew better than I that that was when a man was suppose to pull out to prevent any impregnation possibilities. Be that as it may, her inner muscles clamped forcefully down on my manhood as her whole body began shake, twisting and contorting her massive, flowing breasts from side to side. Unable to escape, I soon gave her a full youthful load of cream deep within her thighs. Little did I realize that could trigger a woman’s orgasm. John Arnold’s wife then arched her back, while with brutal strength, wrapping her arms about me with wide and wild eyes begging me, “Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Obedient to her wishes, I kept pounding her until I lost all strength in my erection.

The job I had been originally hired for was over. And though I imagined that Mrs. Barns, like myself, wanted a second encounter, neither of us had any excuse to chance it. John succumbed to his heart condition the following winter. With many of the men at the shop, I attended his funeral. Despite the crowd and noisy din of the funeral parlor where John lay in state, Mrs. Barns pulled me aside, asking me to stop over the following Sunday night -“later would be better.”