When I moved in Mr Wilson was sent over with a welcome-new-neighbour cake. I took the plate back the next day with flowers from the garden and we became good friends and good neigbours. I enjoyed their company, and I became like the son they never had. Despite that, I always called them Mr and Mrs Wilson - it just seemed right somehow.
Time is the great thief. Over the next few years Mrs Wilson became increasingly feeble. Mr Wilson was desperate in his efforts to look after her, but, over time the inevitable happened - loss compounded on loss until she eventually passed. I was secretly relieved. I think Mr Wilson was too. If nothing else, there suddenly more time in the day. And he changed too. He became softer, more tender. Not weaker, just more vulnerable, like he didn't have to pretend he was strong any more.
She was gone.
He was alone with the balm and the sting of his memories.
As his world shrunk, our friendship became deeper. I'd go over most nights after work just to touch base. On Friday nights we'd sort out his grocery list. I'd do the shopping for him on Saturday morning and deliver the bags of food and necessities in the afternoon. I'd usually stay late, playing euchre, and drinking a scotch or two. Maybe three. I'd fix him a snack for supper and he'd tell me about his younger days, his soldiering experiences in India, how he and Mrs Wilson - Floss - met and fell in love and she walked out on her engagement to some other guy, all the funny and sad stories that make up a richly patterned life. I guess I loved hearing their stories. In my mind it was all Rose and Jack and Titanic, and I know that's both soppy and stupid, and not even slightly how it was.
One Saturday night Mt Wilson was irked over something - I have no idea what agitated him, but something wasn't right with him or the world. The scotch wasn't doing it for him. We stopped playing cards.
"I'm sorry," he said, making futile movements as though he was going to say something, but thought better of it.
"It's ok, I'm over playing cards myself. I was thinking I'd make us some tomato soup for supper. Does that appeal?"
His face clouded over, and it looked like, no, soup wasn't going to hit the spot, but then he thought better of it, and brightened up, and smiled.
"That'd be nice, thank you."
"You seem worked up over something, are you feeling ok?"
"I'm fine," he said, with the kind of throat click he did when he was annoyed or frustrated. "Would you mind if I left you in charge of making us dinner? My back is giving me... " He shrugged and winced.
"Sure, why don't you have a soak in a hot bath and I'll get make dinner. Take your time, I'll get some things from home, and I'll be right back. Will you be ok getting in and out of the tub by yourself?"
He nodded and headed for the bathroom. I heard the water start to run as I left the house. Back home I chopped off a few basil leaves, and picked up a crusty ciabatta loaf I was looking forward to before heading back across the road. About an hour later the soup was simmering nicely, and the kitchen was full of a sweet fragrances of herbs, garlic, and tomatoes. I like to add a good splash of balsamic vinegar to bring out the rich flavours.
"Hey, that smells good, thank you."
He sounded relaxed and a whole lot happier. He was flushed from the heat of the water, and wearing a tee-shirt, pajama pants, white sport sox, and his old dressing gown. I suddenly saw a glimpse of him as a young man and I could see that he must've cut quite a dash when he was in his prime.
"Tomato soup, ciabatta; for dessert, I found these apples at the market the other day - simple supper for us tonight."
Mr Wilson shuffled around and set the table, poured us a beer, put on some jazzy music, and even lit a couple of the candles left in the candelabra. It felt almost as though there was some sort of celebration going on, but I couldn't work out what had lifted his mood. We talked about this and that - some of his lightly mad stories from his soldier days in India.
"One of my pals was a guy we called Dick. His real name was Richard, but we called him Dick. He was a man who wanted to fuck his way around the world, he said he wanted to hear a woman say thank you in every language. That was his thing. He'd come back to the barracks, and tell us about the delights he'd tasted. He used to say he paid the whores based on the size of their nipples, and one night he was laughing because he'd met this woman with nipples the size of a grapes, and he'd kept her busy all night."
He laughed and then fell silent. "He's probably long gone now. He lived up country, owned a farm or something..."
The music finished. I held my glass up to him as a salute, and he smiled and clinked his glass against mine.
"Old soldiers," I said.
He nodded his head, and said with a wry smile, "Yes, old soldiers."
We drained the last of the beer, and banged the glasses down on the table.
"Right, you put some new music on while I clear this away."
The music flowed, and in a few moments the dinner dishes were sorted. Mr Wilson took the candles and sat them on the coffee table, poured us both a fairly generous scotch, and had retired to his usual location at the end of the sofa. There he was when I arrived, sprawled back, more than half his scotch gone, holding his wrist with one hand, resting his hands on his head, eyes closed, legs wide apart - gently snoring.
I didn't want to leave him alone, and I didn't want to disturb him, so I found a book in his collection, and settled at the other end of the sofa. I sipped my scotch, and eased my way into the book.
After a couple of pages he grunted in his sleep, and I looked over to see that fly of his pyjama pants was gaping open and his cock was stiffening up. Mr Wilson's eyes seemed to be moving even though his eyelids were closed and his breathing was just the same as ever. I guessed it was just the usual hard-on we get when we're asleep. Normal enough, but I couldn't take my eyes off his cock.
After all the talk about India, I thought to myself, I never expected to see a cobra in the living room.
The idea was so ridiculous, the whole situation was so ridiculous, that I got the giggles.
My efforts to control my laughter made me shake the sofa and Mr Wilson stirred.
Bleary, half awake, he suddenly realised about his condition, and rushed his hands to protect his modesty. He tried to stand up, then realised that his cock would be even more exposed, and he stopped, looked at me, stunned, blushing.
"Mr. Wilson? Stop. It's ok."
And then, without really thinking of the consequences, I leaned over, looked him in the eyes, and pulled his hands away. His cock stood up, his shame pushing it to new heights. I took a grip around the base of his cock, and pulled it down, stretching the skin tighter.
"No, please don't, please."
I thought he would push me aside, that our friendship years would be over, but he didn't. I guess the alcohol gave us both the courage we needed. I could feel his pulse racing through my hand. "I'm not going to hurt you, but you can't offer, if you're only going to pull away when someone accepts your offer."
I don't know what'd come over me, but I knew if I didn't take this opportunity I'd never get another. I held his cock firmly and took a nice long lick across his cock head.
He moaned, and stammered, "N-no, please..."
He put a hand on my shoulder, but still made no move to push me away. I began to think he was accepting, maybe welcoming the attention, and his protests were weakening. Maybe he was even holding me there.
I loved the fragrances of his groin - I knew he'd used baby talcum powder earlier, but now the smell of the talc combined with the meaty, musky fragrances from around his balls was captivating me. I swallowed as much of his cock as I could, working it over with my tongue, slowly enticing him to cum.
He began breathing in through his mouth, and when I played with his balls he moaned, and thrust his cock out toward me.
"Oh God, please, no..." he murmured, in a husky sounding voice.
I began to lick faster and harder, tasting his pre-cum, and feeling him tense up, almost against his better judgement. It was too late now, his body had taken over from any inhibitions he might've had. He placed one hand on the top of my head, and the other on my neck and he held me how he wanted me. I wrapped thumb and fingers around his balls and stretched them, squeezing tightly. I tightened my lips around his cock and sucked him for all I was worth, working my tongue relentlessly over his cock head. He moaned a glorious protest and bucked, gasping for precious air, and then with a couple of crazed thrusts, the salty sweetness of his cum filled my mouth.
After a few moments he took his hands off me, and I could get up. He was lying back, gasping for breath through his open mouth, eyes shut. I took a swig of the scotch, swilled it in my mouth, and leaned over, and fed the cum and scotch into his open mouth. His eyes opened, surprised, and he choked a little. Then he relaxed, and with a little nervous twitch, opened his mouth again to receive. I dripped the last drops in and finished with a kiss. He grabbed me and held me tight, and kissed me. He kissed me again - slow, lingering.
He opened his mouth to say something.
I smiled, and held my hand up to hush him.
"Now you're awake, I can go home. I didn't want you waking up and finding I wasn't here."
I leaned over, and kissed him on the forehead.
"Good night, sleep well, I'll see you in the morning," I whispered.
I turned and left him.
"Wait. Wait!"
I heard him call.
I kept going.
It was better that way.
I had urgent work to do at home.
curation: dsincubus.tumblr.com
curation: iloveoldsenior.tumblr.com
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