Mrs. Barns 2#

Mrs Barns
Chapter 2

Mrs. Barns had impressed upon me her wanting me to stop over late on Sunday night, long after sunset. That worked for me just fine because I was still at that tender age where I worried about what others might think. After all, Mrs. Barns wasn’t only old enough to be my mother —she was old enough to be my grandmother.

And so it was on a chilly fall Sunday evening with the big hand on nine and the little hand nearly on ten, that I pulled off that country road and down the long limestone driveway into what had been John Arnold’s farm. There were no lights evident within the house. Pulling on around the back of the house I was greeted by a woman with a dim flashlight in hand, guiding me and my car on into the large hey barn. The barn was very much like the one we had on the other side of town. Twenty foot tall and forty foot wide, the doors swung open to either side. Mounds of hay and straw were stacked in front, above on both sides and off to the left. On the right was a stall where either horses or cattle could have laid.

“Help me,” the woman pleaded as together we swung the doors closed. “Those fuck’n kids of John’s were here all day. Blood suckers. Come, let’s get inside.”

Mrs. Barns was wearing a three quarter length woolen winter coat. It was cloudy out and no moon yet present to discern its color. She seemed in a hurry and a bit flustered.

The wake had been on Tuesday with the funeral on Wednesday afternoon. Saturday had been a busy day with the auctioning off most of the farm equipment, tools and assorted life time accumulations. What little I knew of auctions it seemed to me to have been a success judged solely on the number of cars and trucks parked in the drive, along the road and in the adjacent pasture -turned parking lot. What I later learned is that Mrs. Barns was not to become the recipient of any of the proceeds of the auction, for she had never actually married John. John’s two, out of nowhere, children arrived after the funeral to keep tabs on the auction cash box. Perhaps that was why my stay was short. Perhaps that was why Mrs. Barns was no where to be seen.

At the time, I was still living with my parents. I informed them that I had a date and might be home late. My parents were never ones to show much interest in my school grades, my social life, my interests or my future. Their’s was an unhappy marriage.

To say I was apprehensive about pulling back down into the driveway this late at night would be an understatement. My emotions were a mixtures of fear, excitement, puzzlement and hope. For I knew if word ever got out about me and her, it would immediately become the town’s scandal of the century that would follow and haunt me for a lifetime. I was young but I was also scared of counting my chickens before they hatched. Maybe all she had invited me over for was to give me something she had baked be for a going away. For the large sign out front along the road gave ample notice that the farm was up for sale. Everything that wasn’t nailed down had been put on the market. A scandal had already arisen when word got out that there had been no marriage and that Mrs. Barns had merely been John’s housekeeper and cook. I wondered what would happen to her. Where would she go. Would she stay in town or disappear in the night? It was all too evident John’s two children didn’t give a flip. Gertie, aka, Mrs. Gertrude Barns, informed me that she had been given her evacuation orders. I remember thinking how sad it was that families often ate each other alive over their self absorbed dreams inheritance. This wouldn’t be the last time I saw it either.

Just inside the kitchen door, I watched as she laid the flashlight on the table before striking a match to light a candle. “Forgive an old lady for being silly but I don’t want those two leaches thinking I’m still up and that they can show their despicable faces here this late at night.” I watched as she then lit a storm lantern that filled the room with a soft, yellow glow of light. However, as she turned back to me, she was still a shadow. “Come give an old woman a hug, would you?” As I walked closer to her, I realized that she had unfastened the large button of that woolen coat. She grabbed my hands as I was about to surround her with them and slid them inside the coat and drew her self up against me. Those massive, naked pillows were crusted against me as she squeezed me hard. I sensed tears were being stifled off.

“Brian, I don’t know what the future holds for me. I suppose I deserve this. John had offered to marry me but not for love. I don’t know,” she sighed, taking a deep breath to stave off the tears, “ I guess I fooled myself thinking he had left something for me.”

At the shop, we all had concluded that John was a tight fisted, no nonsense, curmudgeon. He got along with the older men but he was cold and mostly intolerant of youthful antics that many of us had.

Gertie held me in that embrace to where it became uncomfortable for someone my age. Eventually she relented and turned away to light a fire on the stove to heat up the kettle. Small talk about the weather, about how many had turned out at the funeral and how happy she was about that. “He was a hard man. You know that. But he was a good man. A fair man. I guess he never stopped loving his wife and stuck to his promise to caring for the kids. I guess I was just hiding out here without giving any serious thought about what would happen to me when he passed.” She chuckled to herself. “Now we know.”

Pouring herself a cup of tea, she turned and smiled at me. “I’m happy you came tonight.” Mrs. Barns then extended her hand to me. “Come,” she asked. This was a totally different side to the woman than I could ever have entertained. She was beaten. Youth can never know what their elders are thinking or feeling and yet I sensed she was a point in her life where death might have been more favored than life. “Bring the lantern, Brian.”

She led me out of the kitchen and up the stairs. The second floor was plain and barren. Taking my hand she pulled me into the room immediately right of the stairs. Inside were some stacked boxes, a large travel case and three old suit cases. The curtains on the windows were thick and heavy and pulled closed. I supposed that was a good thing.

Releasing my hand, Mrs. Barns opened the closet door and took out a hanger. Turning slightly, I watched with bated breath as she slide the heavy coat off of her and onto the hanger before placing it inside the closet and closing the door. It was all poetry in motion. Those large swaying breasts with their large dark brown halos and protruding nipples danced with each of her movements.

She had nothing on under that coat except for black hose, a mid-waist black lace garter and a black pair of lace panties. Mrs. Barns was not fat. She was ample but not fat. Holding that lantern in hand, I was able to divine the dark mat of hair that escaped out of each side of a panty too narrow to contain it.

I suppose I hadn’t had time to fully appreciate the beauty of her breasts that time she had offered her freshly baked cobbler to me. Though they hung due to their sheer weight, they still retained a good bit of solidity to them. The large brown halos were not perfect circles nor were they identical to one another. The right halo was noticeably larger than the left and also had large blue, bulging veins coursing down and around it. It was the larger breast though not significantly so. The left breast had a flaming of smaller veins shooting back out from the more concentric halo. The sight of them took my breath away.

Tonight, Mrs. Barns seemed given over to letting me lead the way. She was offering herself to me without question or guidance. Turning away from her I placed the lantern on the chest of drawers. Turning back, I found Mrs. Barns down on her knees, her hands clasped behind her back, her hair falling to either side of her face, long enough to just touch the tops of her breasts.

I was nineteen. It was nineteen fifty eight. What did I know of older women who were submissive let alone what to do with them? All I knew was that my war baton was granite and that I had deliberately chosen not to wear anything under my pants and it was obvious, just as it had been obvious at our last encounter how much this woman enjoyed sucking on a young man’s cock. Stepping close to her, something within me told me to command her.

“Unfasten my pants,” I heard myself say. Without the slightest of non-compliance, I watched as Mrs. Barns straighten up and begin to loosen my belt, slowly unfasten the button, toggle down my zipper before reaching in and pulling out my cock. Without order or hesitation, her warm mouth inhaled it.

I never considered myself any thing out of the ordinary. High school boys never really studied others boys taking showers after gym. And yet it was evident what each of us had. Phil was the biggest guy in my class and yet he had the smallest “weenie” of all. Buddy Bullion was the stockiest and had the thickest, most prominent. I, however, was equal in length but never considered myself having anything to be proud of. And yet, as Mrs. Barns lost herself in pleasuring me, she would stop from time to time to compliment me saying things like, “You’re the perfect size, Brian.” “Don’t ever think that you don’t have enough to please a woman.” She seemed to like the head of my cock because she would suck on only it and tongue it in circular fashion before gagging herself repeatedly as she tried to consume all of it.

If memory serves me correctly, I believe Mrs. Barns had lived with John for over fifteen years. I can’t imagine she had ever been with a man durning all that time. But there was something about her that betrayed that she knew what she was doing and at some point in her life had been quite experienced in offering herself to the opposite sex. Perhaps it was how I had stiffened up and arched my back that told her I was about to cum. She pulled away, just holding my cock with her hand, never looking up, just gluing her attention to matters at hand. Looking down at her, those blessed breasts heaving in her deep breaths, I almost came just at the sight of her. She released her hold on me and leaned back again taking the position of slave servant.

Oh what a fool I was. So naive. So self restrained. Why didn’t I do this? Why hadn’t I done that? Looking back on it now, I realize that it was my so called fifteen minutes of fame. For never again would such a woman truly offer her whole self to me. And yet, by nothing more than dumb luck, did I learn that some women actually like for their partner to “handle” them. I don’t know to this day how it actually first occurred but somehow my open hand had accidentally slapped the side of her left breast hard enough to echo loudly in the barren room. To my surprise she let out a gasp of unexpected pleasure. And though I don’t remember her specifically asking me to continue, it seemed something she wanted me to continue doing -so I did.

The more I slapped her breasts the more she moaned and the greater her nipples grew. For how long I slapped them I only know she never asked me to stop. The white alabaster skin had turned red. She had stood up and arched her back pushing her breast out so as to give me full access to continue my barrage of open handed slaps. Hitting one lunged it over into the other which in turn made yet a second slapping sound. And then, lost in the magic of having such abundant beauties so unobtrusively offer to me, I lunged forward, sucking with all my might on the the nipple of the right breast with it enlarging blue veins all the while grabbing tightly with my right hand, her left nipple, pulling on it hard, twisting and turning it before my hand slid down beneath that breast to squeeze as much of that motherly flesh as it could attain. I guess that was when it happened.

I had been lost in the youthful pursuit of engorging myself on her breasts that I hadn’t realized that her hand had slid down between her legs and into her panty briefs to finger herself. She screamed as my teeth clamped down on her nipple as my hand squeeze the other so hard as if to rip it off in wanting to take it home with me. She screamed as she came, pulling back away from me, shouting to God almighty as she ferociously swept her hand back and forth within those black laced panties as I watched in that lantern’s light a thick white oozing of female cum. Shocked, I had never imagined such a thing.

Servitude had come to an end as Mrs. Barns grabbed my shirt and commanded me to get undressed, ripping at my clothing to aid me in that pursuit before pulling me down on top of her as we, together, fell onto her bed. “Fuck me,” she commanded.

On the kitchen table she had glistened after I had mouthed my pleasure of her hairy delight. And when I had penetrated her, there was a warm, satiny smoothness. But nothing compared to what I then experienced as she grabbed hold of my cock and guided it into what I can now only describe as sloppy seconds. The rigidity of youth easily slid to the hilt inside her. Lost in abandon I pounded the woman with all the strength I had within me. Then it happened. Some hidden door deep within opened and the head of my cock pushed through. I’d never felt anything like that before, not in ten thousand times of masturbating. Her nails grasped the skin on my back as hard as my hands had grasped the fat of her breasts. I watched as her eyes rolled back into her, her back arched up, her demonic scream as suddenly, as if Hover Dam itself had burst, she erupted.

Being only nineteen at the time, my cum was thick, multitudinous, and a creamy white. But so too was Mrs. B’s. Never before and never again would I experience such a woman as the late, great, Mrs. Gertrude Barns. What was my cream and what was hers had no earthly way of being determined. Exhausted, we each, with out spread arms laid there on that bed gasping for air.

“Oh my god. I have never felt like this,” she confessed before apologizing. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. I just had to come.”

“That’s quite all right,” I think I heard myself say.

She ran a bath in the adjoining room and we sat together in that big claw footed tub before, once again, doing that dance on her clean sheeted bed. With a sad but appreciable kiss, she thanked me before slipping a piece of paper in my hand that had a telephone number scribbled on it.

“You’ve proved yourself worthy, young Brian Hollester" she told me. "I think if you're willing to pursue it, you two will find much happiness -if you will but listen to an old lady.”

And so it was that I laid in my own bed that night, reliving the dream that I had lived. It was the last time I ever saw, Gertie. She didn’t come to our wedding for her own reasons. But her daughter and I did find much happiness as her daughter’s breasts were nearly her match, especially when kids brought nursing to our humble home.