Aiding Ms. Bronson

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It was back in the forties, a more innocent time. It was the summer after I graduated from high school and I was eighteen. I was not as worldly and knowing as most young men are today.

Mrs. Bronson hailed me from across the street. “I just made me a fresh squeezing of lemonade. Stop in and have a drop.”

When walking uptown, I always waved to Mrs. Bronson when I passed. I was planning to take in a Thursday night double feature. Sometimes, if I was not in a hurry, I crossed over and we sat facing each other in her old fashioned chair swing.

Mrs. Bronson was not particularly careful about her appearance. At times she crossed and uncrossed her heavy legs and let them drift apart, revealing vast expanses of milky white flesh further up than a young man should look. Those exposures never revealed much beyond, but in a young, inexperienced man’s thoughts there existed possibilities.

Aunt, who was friends with the lady, always cautioned me, “Be nice to Mrs. Bronson. She’s strange and brazenly outspoken but she’s got a good heart.”

I was eighteen, agonizingly shy with most people. That summer, I worked in the greenhouses where I acquired good muscles in spite of being almost painfully thin. Not wearing a shirt had made me as brown as a berry from the waist up.

I crossed the street to her small front yard. Her chair swing let two people sway gently, back and forth in relaxed conversation. I sat opposite her, holding a cold, sweaty glass. I liked Mrs. Bronson. She never talked down to me.

She asked about my working in the greenhouse, about Chuckie and Bobby, who had been my friends forever. I said we were too old to play kids games anymore and anyway Chuckie’s parents had moved to the far side of town.

She asked if I had a liking for girls and if I had a girl friend.

At eighteen, I secretly admired girls but I was mostly too shy to talk to them. “I haven’t got a girl.” I blushed. “I’m too skinny for anybody to like me.”

“I don’t think that’s so,” said Mrs. Bronson. She fanned herself with a folded section of the evening paper. “If I was younger and a bit prettier I’d be flattered having you for a boyfriend.”

I sipped on my lemonade. I could not imagine old Mrs. Bronson being pretty.

She drew forced, deep breaths in the hot, breezeless gloom of early evening. Beads of sweat trickled between sun tanned breasts trying to escape from the gaping scooped neck. Her voluminous print dress crept over dimpled, bare knees forced apart by solid, meaty thighs and revealed six inches of pale flesh squashed together. Occasionally she lifted the thin material, when she thought I was not looking, to fan her legs and whatever was hidden further up.

I cannot say why surreptitious viewings of those thick slabs of thigh held such fascination. She was not an attractive or well built woman. In her loose house dress, she appeared shapelessly plump. She was, in my young eyes, old, well into her forties old. Still, there remained the challenge. Something hidden there, I knew, was not for my eyes. I liked the lady but she did not precipitate those chicken-choking fantasies I had when imagining pretty sophomore Anabel Waterson naked.

Her movements caused a twinge at my groin. I hoped Mrs. Bronson would not notice. My friend, Chuckie, swore Mrs. Bronson did not wear underpants. It was so, he said, because none were ever hung out on her line on wash day.

A slow smile crossed Mrs. Bronson’s face. “Now Boy, you wouldn’t be sneaking peeks at an old lady’s parsley patch,would you?”

“Huh?”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” She laughed so loud it sounded indecent. “Not much. Not if you’re an honest to God boy.”

I know my face turned red. “I. . . I don’t. . .

Suddenly, Mrs. Bronson let out a gasp as though she were in pain.

“Is something the matter.”

“I got me a bad cramping. That’s all.”

“You sure?”

Mrs. Bronson gritted her teeth. “I shouldn’t a got myself in this condition.”

“What ‘s that?”

“It’s not a fitting subject for talking about with a young man.”

“I’m eighteen. I’m not a child.”

“Of course you’re not.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I got me a bad case of the constipates. That’s all.”

“I have to take castor oil when I don’t go for a while.”

“I hate the awful taste and I been putting it off too long.”

“Aunt threatened me with a switch when I wouldn’t take it.”

“Maybe somebody ought to warm my butt. Would you like to do that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You wouldn’t like swatting an old lady’s hind end?”

I swear her knees moved further apart. It was getting dark. I was uncomfortable. “I don’t know, ma’am. I’ve never done that.”

“Don’t call me ma’am. This is grown-ups talking.”

“What will you do if you don’t go?”

“It ain’t healthy, not doing your daily. I ain’t passed a thing it’s been four or five days now, no matter how I strained. “

“I guess you best take your castor oil.”

“Or you’ll take a hand to me?”

“I don’t think you’d like that.”

“No telling what I’d like if I knew you wouldn’t talk.”

“I’ve never told. Not even when casino oyna I got whipped.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

It was darker now. I don’t know where I found the nerve. I picked up a rubber tipped flyswatter. “Stand up,” I murmured and I’ll give you your medicine.”

“Well now. There is some spunk in you, boy. You’d whup this old lady’s butt to make her do what she should ought on her own.”

“Go take your medicine,” I begged.”

Mrs. Bronson stood and turned her back. “Make me.”

I swatted her on the broadest part of that big, rounded bottom. The sound was unreal.

” Mrs. Bronson rubbed the place. “You wield a healthy swat. My ass, I mean my butt, burns like fire.”

“You can say ass. I know what an ass is.”

“I just bet you do, honey, but not a big fat one like I got.”

While she wasn’t looking, I adjusted my crotch. One swat on that broad butt and I had sprouted a boner.

She tugged at my hand. “I’m tingling. Come inside afore I lose my nerve.”

“Are you sure?”

“You got make this lady behave like she ought.”

She switched on a dim light in the living room and proceeded to the kitchen beyond, where it was darker.

Mrs. Bronson placed her hands on the seat of a high backed chair and bent forward. Her broad butt projected toward me. “Punish me.”

“For what?”

“For thinking the thoughts I’m thinking. Whop that ass. Whop it good.”

“You tell me if it hurts too bad.”

“Honey, you got no idea what you’re doing for me.”

I whacked her a good one. After two more, I thought I heard a sigh. I knew they stung. I let her have another.

“Wait a minute,” hissed Mrs. Bronson. With both hands she tugged at her dress until the hem rested in the small of her back. She was a dark form in the near darkness. I made out the outline of tree trunk thighs forking downward from the bulbous cheeks. “God forgive me,” she breathed hoarsely, “now, lay it to me.”

With each crack, I let the vibrating flesh settle before letting the next stroke fly. I swear her legs parted more each swat. I heard her moan.

.

“Should I stop?”

She spoke through gritted teeth. “No, damn you.”

I aimed the flyswatter in an upward arc, catching the lower projections of both cheeks. Her legs parted wide. “There! Smack it! Smack it in there!”

I prodded the handle between her legs, touched the shadowy place. I dropped the swatter.

“Smack it, damn you!”

I brought my hand up hard. The sound was muffled. It must have hurt.

“Again!”

I slapped the same place and felt the crinkly hairs.

“Again!”

“I’m hurting you.”

“You should hurt so good!”

Two more slaps and she slumped to her knees. She croaked, “Enough.”

“Are you all right?”

“Honey, I never hurt better. I’m still clogged up but you sure slapped one thing out of my system.”

“What was that?”

“Something I been craving a long, long time.”

“A spanking.”

“That’s a part of it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will someday.”

“Now, take your castor oil”

“It’s something else I’ll be needing and there’s nobody to do me.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you know what an enema is?”

“No Ma’am.”

“Then I guess you wouldn’t know how.”

“Maybe if you showed me.”

“I could be in trouble now. An enema would make it a lot worse.”

“Why?”

“You would be touching my butt hole. It would embarrass me, a lot.”

“I smacked your bare butt.”

“Honey, I don’t know what I’m thinking about.” She smoothed her dress over her hips. “Things plumb got away from me.”

“Aren’t you constipated?”

“Oh, I’m all stopped up all right and I deserve what I got for doing nothing about it. You smacked my tail real good. She rubbed a tender spot. “I couldn’t tell you to stop.”

“You got to have this enema thing?”

“I couldn’t let you.”

“How does it work?”

Mrs. Bronson led me to the bathroom. The tub sat beyond the wash bowl and a toilet. Opening a closet and reaching back on the top shelf, she backed out holding a red rubber, water bottle with a long hose attached. At the end of the hose dangled a grooved black nozzle with lots of little holes in it.

It was easy figuring out where that went. “What do you put in it.”

“Warm, soapy water.”

“And that black thing goes up your. . .”

“In my bottom, yes.”

“Then soapy water squirts up inside you.”

“That’s right.”

“I’d put that thing up you and squeeze the water out of the bag?”

“The bag hangs. The clamp holds the water until you are ready for the flow.”

“Can’t you reach back and do it.”

“I’ve tried. Something’s wrong with my shoulder. I can’t reach back and find the place. I’m feeling just terrible about this.” Mrs. Bronson looked sad.

“I can do it. I wouldn’t mind, honest.”

“I’m a modest woman. No man’s seen me bare, ever, but my dear departed.”

“I won’t tell.”

A twinge of pain crossed her round face. “For a minute, I forgot for a how clogged up I’ve got.”

I smacked her plump butt with my bare slot oyna hand. The soft consistency absorbed my hand. I made my voice as deep and as harsh as I could. “I’ll do it. Take off your clothes.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

I smacked her again. “Do it!”

I thought she might cry with gratitude. She lifted the dress over her head.

Her breasts, smaller than I imagined, sagged. The small, brown nipples protruded from, dark, wider circles. They were my first completely bare boobs.

She turned her back. The mounds of her backside were tightly inflated flesh balloons. A few red splotches marred the fish white flesh where I smacked her.

“I don’t look so pretty back there,” said Mrs. Bronson. “You keep in mind I’m an old woman with nearly locked bowels.”

I was awed by the stark, mottled whiteness of those acres of flesh.

“I can’t believe I’d let a nice young man see me naked.”

“You need someone.” I reminded.

“Bless you.”

“How do we go about it?”

“I’ll kneel in the bathtub in case there’s an accident.”

“”We need the hot water and the soap,” I reminded.

“Oh God!, I forgot.” Mrs. Bronson turned quickly and brushed past me.

I glimpsed the wiry beard of salt and pepper curls where her distended belly merged into full thighs rubbing together as she walked. That hairy triangle was imprinted in my brain. I watched the large mounds of flesh atternate, up and down, as she retreated to the kitchen. I heard her fill a teakettle and set it on the stove.

She returned wearing a loosely tied robe and retrieved the enema bag. “Maybe you should remove your shirt. You wouldn’t want to ruin it.”

I hung it on the bathroom doorknob. I kicked off my shoes, stuffed my socks inside and placed them outside the door. I rolled up my pants legs. I prayed she would not notice my bulging fly.

Mrs. Bronson hung the bag on a nail high on the wall. “I hope you won’t think less of me for doing this.”

“No ma’am.”

“Have you ever seen a naked woman?”

“Just pictures.”

“Of everything?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Where on earth did you do that?”

“There was this nudist magazine.”

“Yours?”

“It belonged to a friend’s dad. The guy snuck it out so we could look.”

“A lot of boys?”

“Just four of us.”

“And you played nudist?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does seeing me this way make you feel different?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, has something happened?”

“Your water’s getting cold.”

“So it is.” Mrs. Bronson slipped out of the robe. She stepped into the tub, got on her knees and leaned forward with her rump elevated. “You know where it goes.”

“Sure.”

I guess that’s not the prettiest rosebud you’ll ever see.”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

“There’s Vaseline in the medicine cabinet.”

I found the jar and removed the lid. Kneeling by the tub I surveyed the rounded mounds. Tentatively, I parted the mottled cheeks. Deep within the crease, I located the brown, puckered star. I dipped my finger into the Vaseline, then touched the spot the nozzle was to enter. Mrs. Bronson quivered when I pressed in.

Mrs. Bronson moaned. Her hips thrust back. “My husband never done that to me!”

I sawed in and out until my finger penetrated as far as it would go.

“Oh God. I wish I didn’t have to take all that water.”

I smeared Vaseline on the curved, black nozzle and inserted it slowly.

“It feels strange,” said Mrs. Bronson, “like it’s coming out my throat.”

“Are you ready for the water?”

“I guess as ready as I’ll ever be.”

I opened the clamp. Water gurgled through the hose. I checked for leaks where her brown opening gripped the nozzle. I could not imagine this happening. I knew as soon as I got home, I would yank off at least twice or I would never go to sleep.

I ran my hands over broad expanses of her flesh. I caressed and squeezed handfuls, enthralled by the yielding warmth.

She wriggled and moaned. “So full, I don’t know if I can hold it all.”

“You have to.”

“How much is left?”

I checked the reservoir. “Nearly half.”

“Oh God! I’ll never make it.”

Kneeling beside the tub, I urged her shoulders down and elevated her butt. I pried her legs apart. Her puffed vaginal lips winked inches from my face.

“Stop it for a minute. Rub my belly, please. I feel so full.” Mrs. Bronson, weight on her elbows, forearms crossed, her head down and turned away. The hose protruded from between the massive hams like a long, obscene tail.

The poor woman, I was sure, did not realize the extent of her exposure of her privates. I smacked her lightly. An upwardly aimed hand encountered crisp moist hair. “I’ll try,” I promised. To give my boner room, I opened my fly. The air cooled the stiff column.

I reached under her, between her legs. Damp, wiry ringlets tickled my wrist. I kneaded the distended belly flesh swaying under my fingers and felt the sudsy water slosh inside her.

“That feels good,” purred Mrs. Bronson.

“Yes Ma’am.” I wiggled the hose to distract her then canlı casino siteleri invaded the moist cleft between her legs. I encountered a slick wetness I knew was not sweat. I wondered if women shot off and made the white stuff.

My boner, projecting from my open fly, brushed the porcelain tub. The cold gave me an electric tingle of surprise. My finger wormed it’s way inside her.

“Oooh,” said Mrs. Bronson, “what are you trying to do?”

“Rubbing your belly” I froze.

“That’s not exactly my belly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not proper, a young man should rub a lady there.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

She squirmed. “l feel like I got to pee.”

“Go ahead, it will go down the drain.”

“Do you pee in your bath tub?”

“Sometimes, when I take a bath.”

“Men are made different .”

“Yes Ma’am. They sure are.” Cautiously, I reinserted my finger. I’m sure she helped.

She exhaled sighs of pleasure. “Oh God! Oh God, Forgive me.”

I sawed in and out. It was instinctual. My boner, purple head exposed, bobbed against the tub.

The woman raised her head. “Let me have the rest of the suds. I’m ready”

I removed the clip. Soapy water flowed into her. “How does it feel?”

She looked up at me. Her eyes were bright. “What?” The question appeared to stump her for a moment.

“All that water inside you.”

“Fuller than you can imagine. It’s the nasty feeling of that tube up there. It’s being naughtier than anyone would believe a woman could be with a youngster.”

“It’s not like anything I’ve ever done.”

“I just bet you never have. Don’t something happen to you? I mean seeing a fat old naked woman, shoving that thing up her rectum and then doing the finger thing where a man shouldn’t ought. Ain’t something got hard?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?”

I nodded.

“And embarrasses you?”

I nodded again.”

“My God, boy. With what you’re doing and me letting you, who’s to be embarrassed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has it been that way long?”

“Since I swatted your butt.”

“Lordy,” said Mrs. Bronson. “And I been wet like your finger found it. I don’t know what’s got into me.” She raised her head. “Can I see it.”

“The water’s gone. I think you got it all.”

Mrs. Bronson raised up, the hose wagging in her bottom as she rose to her knees. “You better pull that thing out so I can move. I don’t know how long I’ll hold it.

The nozzle slipped out easily although Mrs. Bronson seemed to exert pressure to hinder its withdrawal.

She peered over the edge of the tub. “My, my. You have got a biggie. I declare, it’s more than my dear, dead departed had, God rest his soul and his puny pecker.”

“It was hurting in my pants.”

“I just bet it was. Do you play with it?”

I looked at the floor. “Sometimes.”

“Of course you do. A fine rod like that. It’s made for playing with. Have you let others tickle it?”

“You mean girls?”

“Or boys.”

“I don’t think girls want to.”

‘You wait a few years. There’s women who fight for a stiff one like that.”

“I don’t think so. I’m too skinny.”

“You might be skinny, honey, but that thing ain’t.” Mrs. Bronson wet her lips. “So you let the boys play with it?”

“Not so much since I’m older.”

Mrs. Bronson, leaning on me, stepped from the tub to sit on the toilet. “I got to be ready when I can’t hold it in no more. If I keep my mind off it, maybe I can hold it.”

“What should we do?”

“Step out of those pants. Let me see as much of you as you’ve been seeing of me.”

“I guess that’s most everything.” I opened my belt. The pants slipped to the floor. “I feel strange.”

“Gracious. Think how I felt when you parted my backside and poked a greasy finger in there?”

“I guess it felt funny.”

“It tickled better than most anything for a long, long time.”

“It did?”

“I was wishing for something bigger around and longer.” She closed her soft, pudgy fingers around my boner. “Tell me about playing with your friends.”

“You’ll never tell?”

“Naked and with your boner in my hand, do you think I’d talk?”

“I guess not.” I stood in front of her.

Her fingers moved slowly. “Do you do something like this?”

“Yeah.”

“A lot?”

I shrugged.

“Tell me.”

“We snuck up in Uncle’s barn loft.”

“How many?”

“Three or four of us.”

“And you took off your clothes?”

“Sometimes, sometime we just pulled them out and showed.”

“And then?”

“Sometimes we measured.”

“I bet you were the biggest.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes Chuckie had the biggest.”

“Chuckie Bauxer, that nice boy who lives up the street?”

I nodded. “Until he moved away. Don’t tell I told.”

“Course not. You and Chuckie touched each other?”

“Sometimes.”

“Was that exciting?”

I watched the lazy movement of her hand and wondered how long I could last. I wondered if she would be mad if I shot. “It felt good.”

“Did you do that a lot?”

“Sometimes, until they got sore.”

“How old were you?”

I guess we started when we were nine or ten. We weren’t very big, then.”

“But you grew bigger.”

“After a while.”

“Do you make stuff come out?”

I nodded.

“Does it come a lot?”

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