Tea, Cake or Something

“Way I see it,” he offered, “we have three options. We can either go to the coffee shop and see if any of their 1000 attempts have managed to produce a palatable cup of coffee. Go to Maccy D's and get a paper cup of tea but be unable to hear ourselves think or....” his voice trailed off. “Or?” I asked. Tea, cake or something? Hello, my name's Betty. I'm a housewife and I'll admit to being of a 'certain age'. The highlight of my day was a trip to the shops. If the weather was clement I'd walk the mile each way. I enjoyed the walk and it kept me fit and slim. For nobody's benefit but my own. If it was less clement I'd take the bus and if I had lots of shopping I'd take the car. The highlight of my nights was hearing my husband snoring in bed beside me. When he was in bed beside me. About eighteen months ago he was promoted and he now spends more time away than he does at home which he seems to enjoy and I wasn't so happy about. I picked up the 50 Shades trilogy in the charity shop shortly after his promotion and had a great time reading them. I let my imagination run wild, without any worries that he might pop home from work early and catch me. Once I had read them I thought I'd try 'googling' erotic stories and see what comes up. Well a surprising amount came up and I've been enjoying the stories ever since. I'd like to tell you about what happened one Thursday while I was in the Building Society. It's probably a bit tame by comparison with some of the stories I have enjoyed but..... well here goes. It was along queue and only three tellers working. I was passing the time trying to watch the news on a large wall mounted TV screen. The sub-titles were way behind the action on screen making it difficult to make sense of anything. “Y'know, I've been coming into this building society for over twenty years and I cannot remember a single time when I haven't had to queue for hours.” The friendly voice relieved me of the tedium of watching the pointless news broadcast. He was a well dressed gentleman with white hair that looked as if it would never respond to a good comb or stiff brush, a white beard, the most amazing blue eyes and a friendly, open smile. “Tell me about it,” I agreed. “they've been cost cutting for years but I never see any benefit in my savings interest rates.” We chatted amiably, as you do with strangers sharing the tedium of waiting and slowly shuffled forward as required. He was one place ahead of me in the queue. Then two of the tellers disappeared! By the time the weather, politics and the problems in Calais had been covered in some detail he reached the head of the queue. “Look,” he said, “why don't you go first. I'm in no hurry to go home. The place is empty so I'm better off standing in a queue and talking to people.” “I'm in no hurry either.” I told him, “My husband went to the Far East for a week two weeks ago and this morning I got an email saying he would be another ten days. My house is empty too.” He was called to 'cashier No.2, please'. Three more had returned from their smoking break and I was quickly summoned to 'cashier No. 3'. We finished together. “D'you fancy a cup of tea and a piece of cake or something?” he asked as he held the street door open for me. I smiled, “That would be nice, thank you. The charity shop cafe?” I replied happily. He smiled and held out his arm. “Take my arm. If you see anybody you know just tell them I'm a doddery old fool who needs a cup of sweet tea and a piece of cake to get my sugar levels up!” he has a lovely grin. Being the perfect gent he let me go up the stairs first. I reached the halfway landing and turned. He was still at the bottom looking up. “Are you alright?” I asked worriedly. “I'm fine,” he replied, “I feel ten years younger, would you mind coming down and walking up again? I might feel twenty years younger then.” “You old rogue!” I called down to him and waited until he joined me then went up the last short flight. I turned at the top and watched the grin spread over his face. “Thanks,” he said, “don't feel a day over sixty five now.” he took hold of the banister and joined me at the top. We looked around the crowded tea room. Not a space to be seen and nobody looking as if they were nearly about to leave. A member of staff tried to ease passed and he moved in closer to me. I did enjoy the friendly closeness of another person. “Pity,” I said, “I was quite looking forward to a cup of tea, a piece of cake or something.” “Way I see it,” he offered, “we have three options. We can either go to the coffee shop and see if any of their 1000 attempts have managed to produce a palatable cup of coffee. Go to Maccy D's and get a paper cup of tea but be unable to hear ourselves think or....” his voice trailed off. “Or?” I asked. “My flat's just around the corner. We can get them,” he pointed to the staff in the corner by the till, “to put a couple of pieces of cake in a bag and I can make us a nice cup of tea. I might need a hand with the 'or something'” he offered with his wonderfully cheeky smile. “I'm betting you live on the top floor?” I teased. “Unfortunately not, the ground floor.” he said sadly, then smiled. It was a lovely flat. Clean, tidy and ordered. A man, living on his own with nothing much to do. A bit like home really. “Go and make yourself comfortable while I put the kettle on,” he suggested. “May I use the loo?” I asked. “Of course but you will have to sing, there's no lock on the door. Living alone I don't need one,” he responded, “I'll put a fresh towel in the bathroom for you.” A couple of minutes later I heard “There's a clean towel on the side of the bath. I can't hear you singing though,” then his laugh. We sat at either end of the sofa, the tea and cake was on the little coffee table. We couldn't decide on lemon drizzle or chocolate fudge cake so purchased a slice of each which we shared. It seemed perfectly natural when he offered a piece of lemon drizzle to me on his fork. I took it without hesitation then offered a piece of chocolate fudge to him. We chatted about everything under the sun. I asked about his late wife and he asked about my husband. I said he had little or no time for me. He took no notice of me or my needs. I felt that I was just somebody to keep house and wash his clothes when he returned. I must have sounded very p'ed off because he asked how that made me feel. “Annoyed and,” I paused, “frustrated, to be honest.” I admitted putting a piece of chocolate fudge cake into my mouth to mask my embarrassment. “I can relate to that,” he agreed, “still, when you reach VERY frustrated, pop round and I'll see if I can remember how to help, if you like.” I laughed, chocked, spluttered and a large blob of chocolate butter cream landed on my white blouse. He shouted 'Don't!' as I automatically went to wipe it off making even more mess. “Pity,” he said, “we had a chance of saving it but you've spread it everywhere now. Slip it off while I sort out something for you to wear. Then we can clean it up.” I looked at him in surprise. “Don't worry. Just imagine I'm your husband, I'll try not to look.” he said. I knew I had flushed but was surprised to feel my panties suddenly become wet. This is crazy I told myself how can a charming, amusing, cheeky octogenarian make my panties wet?' “Silly bugger!” I told him, “If you're not going to look then there's no point in taking it off.” “OK, fair point. I promise to look, and try and remember what it is I'm looking at.” Again that cheeky grin. He must have been quite one for the ladies in his day. When he returned I had removed my blouse AND my bra. I was sat, up straight, with shoulders back and tits out! He had made me laugh and he had made me wet and I was delighted to see his smile. “See anything you recognise?” I asked, innocently. “No, don't tell me. Let me guess.” He grinned back at me. “Would you mind standing and turning slowly? I think maybe a profile might help my memory.” I stood, lifted my hands above my head, to give the extra lift and hide the TOB effect as much as possible, and turned slowly. He reached tentatively towards me and I stepped closer. His hand gently cupped my breast and I felt my pulse quicken. He stepped behind me and with equal care cupped my other breast in his large hand. He eased me back to rest upon his chest. I made no resistance savouring the tender attention. “If memory serves,” he whispered, “this is where I nuzzle your neck and nibble your ear.” He did and I melted. My nipples, already excited by my exposure to this virtual stranger, engorged to hard little buttons under his touch. He gently stroked and caressed each breast running the the palms of his hands delicately across each nipple in little circular motions. I purred like a much loved kitten, stretched my neck offering it to the loving caress of his tender lips. He moved his hands, my left breast rested on his forearm while the hand caressed my right breast. His right hand traced delicate tendrils of excitement over my belly around my hips and up my back. Shivers tingled up and down my spine as months and months and months of frustration flowed out of my body. My knees trembled and my breathing came quicker. His fingers found the zip at the back of my skirt and my incoherent sigh answered his unasked question. He eased the zip down and returned to undo the button. I stepped forward allowing the material to slip to the floor where I stepped out of it and kicked it away across the carpet. Fingers traced the roundness of my bottom, the cleft between my cheeks and down over my anus and beyond, to the wetness that told him I was ready for anything he chose to do. With his right hand fluttering across my bottom he moved his left downwards to my panties and further until those fingers also discovered my wetness. They traced around the area, playing with my swollen flesh and pushing gently across the folds of my pussy. The sounds emitted from my throat were becoming more animal by the minute. I wanted him. I needed him to take me, make me his. I started pulling at my panties, struggling to get them off and remove the hated material that was between his questing fingers and my aching need. As soon as my pussy was uncovered he slid his fingers straight down, between the swollen lips, across my clitty, along the slippery pathway to my entrance. He crouched slightly then slowly, painstakingly slowly he bent his finger! For an eternity I felt the minutest movement at the entrance to my very being. It slid in only the tiniest amount. Eventually it was in as far as the first knuckle joint. He bent it up and moved it from side to side, slowly and carefully. At the first movement I started to cum. With each movement, left then right the orgasm built and built until I felt I could stand no more. I squirted over his hand and he pushed the finger deep into me. My first male induced orgasm in years nearly blew my mind. He held me tight while I recovered. “I think you need to lie down, young lady,” he said, taking me by the hand.