A Merry Month of May

A Merry Month of May

by

Trigudis

Dennis

News of Sanford Lane's death comes as a total shock. The Lanes, Sanford, his wife Abbey and their children, Edward and Alice, live just a couple blocks away from my family. Alice and her brother, away at college when they got the news, come in for the funeral.

The Lanes appeared to have a wonderful life. A wonderful life... It's a cliché (and a movie, I know), yes, but they really did. Sanford made a good living as a pediatrician. Edward and his older sister Alice went to private school before college. They belonged to a country club and drove nice cars. Then it all came crashing down when Sanford died at work from a massive heart attack. He was fifty-three.

Fortunately, Sanford built up a nice nest egg and bought a generous life insurance policy. Their house is paid for. Still, Abbey works fulltime doing secretarial work, more to keep busy than out of necessity. Edward and Alice are back at school, while their mom is all alone in that four-bedroom house. Attending a local college and still living at home, I see her from time to time, not blind to the grief etched on her pretty face. My parents have said that she looks a bit like the late actress Lauren Bacall. After seeing some of her movies, I agree. Like Bacall, Abbey is not only pretty but has a seductive sexiness about her in the way she walks and talks, in the way she sits, turns her head and the way she sometimes styles her hair.

I always look forward to summer, watching Abbey do lawn work in a sundress, shorts and sometimes even in a bikini. She's got the right figure for wearing skimpy outfits, even though she's now in her forties. When Edward lived at home, visiting him could be a challenge. How does a horny kid look at a sexy older woman in her own home without her or her son noticing? He can't, not really, though I did my best to be discreet. Abbey sometimes watched TV with us. We'd be on the sofa, while she'd be on a lounge chair a few feet away, often with her skirt or dress hiked up to mid-thigh. Invariably, she'd catch me looking and then break out into a sly grin, making it obvious that she enjoyed the attention. Edward pretended not to notice her erotic display and my attention to it. Not that I blamed him, for it would be embarrassing to any kid in that situation.

After Sanford died, many of the neighbors, including my family, made condolence calls, offering to help in any way we could. "Thanks, Dennis, I might one day take you up on that," she said to me.

Now, it's a couple months later, a late Saturday morning in early May. Abbey calls, asks if I can help her rearrange some of her furniture. "Sure, no problem," I say.

She answers the door wearing casual house attire, blue capri pants, a low-cut orange blouse and slippers. She looks sad, though she greets me with the sort of brave smile that the aggrieved sometimes wear to show that they are holding up, all things considered. When I ask how she is doing, she says, "Oh, getting by as best I can. Taking things day by day. It's not easy. There are so many memories here, too many. I'm thinking seriously about putting this place up for sale and then moving to a condo or apartment."

She turns away, looks like she's about to break down. But then she catches herself and says, "Anyway, enough of that. Let's get to work."

There isn't a whole lot of work to do. Just moving a few pieces of furniture that she doesn't think she can move alone, including a piano. While doing it, she asks me about college, what I do for fun, etc. She even asks if I'm still dating a girl that Edward had told her about. I'm not, I tell her, since Ilene, my high school sweetheart, and I split a few months ago.

After the "work," Abbey takes me into her kitchen. She fixes us both a cup of coffee and then we sit at her small kitchen table. She talks again about Sanford, how they met, the good times and not so good times. "But we loved each other," she says. "We were fully committed, rock-solid. We were able to smooth over the rough patches in our marriage." She begins to relate a humorous incident. "Sanford was a mostly serious guy but he could also be this lovable goofball. One day..." She swallows, looks down and then up. "One day, we were at the club..."

She shakes her head, unable to continue. Tears fill her pretty blue eyes, then run down her cheeks. I want so much to comfort her but I'm not sure how. Instinctively, I take her hand, lean over the table and hug her. "It's okay, it's okay. I'm here for you."

She pulls back and wipes her eyes. "I'm sorry, Dennis, I don't mean to burden you with my grief. It's just that I have these moments when I lose it and break down."

"That's understandable. You've suffered a major loss."

She nods, grabs a tissue and blows her nose. "Right, I know. I miss him so, miss snuggling against him in bed, miss his warm body next to mine. Now I'm alone in bed, with only memories to comfort me. Which isn't much comfort because the more I remember, the sadder I feel."

I think of keeping her company in that now lonely bed. I feel confident that I can make her feel better. Much better. Thus far, my heavy sexual experience has been confined to what I did with Ilene. Still, we did enough to give me that sort of confidence. Part of it is wanting to help Abbey through her grief. And the other part, forgive me, is pure carnal desire. Her still cute, youthful body and the way a wave of her fine, silky hair falls halfway over one eye, not to mention the sexy Bacall image and the tops of her boobs just a foot or so from my face, is major arousal material. A guy less sensitive to the woes of others might try to take advantage of a woman in Abbey's depressed state. Fantasies aside, this isn't me.

She reaches for my hand at the same time I steal a glance inside her blouse, taking note of her laced red bra. She catches me and grins. Then she says, "It's okay, Dennis. It feels good to be admired, especially in my situation." She squeezes my hand and winks.

At a loss for words, all I can do now is blush and gaze into her blue eyes. Finally, I say, "Look, I've always found you attractive and still do. But I know this isn't the time and place to talk about things like that."

"Not the time and place...hmm. My thoughts exactly when I got the call that Sanford was in the ER. It wasn't his time to die, I screamed. But of course, it was. Because he did."

As if to change the subject, she slides her hand across the stubble of my face. "Are you growing a beard and mustache?" When I nod, she says, "I think it will look good on you, will give that baby face of yours a more mature, distinguished look. That aside, I still think you're cute. A handsome kind of cute."

Baby face. Yeah, I still get carded and some think I'm still in high school. That's fine if you're pushing forty, I guess, but not so much when you're nineteen. But, me worry? Abbey just called me a handsome kind of cute.

She continues: "Anyway, what I was trying to say in response to your time and place comment, is that life can be so unpredictable, so fleeting. We all know that but it takes something like the sudden death of a loved one before it hits home. As for time and place, it's never right or never wrong. It just is. Like I said, it feels good to be admired. And while we're talking about attraction, besides your handsome cuteness, I also like your blondish, wavy hair. It reminds me of Robert Redford's thick locks." She runs her hand through those locks that she so admires.

"If only I could act like him," is the only thing I can think to say.

"Yeah, and if only I could act like Betty Bacall once did. I've been told that I resemble her in looks."

"Well, you do. Don't you think? She was way before my time, but I've seen photos and a couple of her movies."

Abbey smiles and gives a mocking dramatic toss of her head. "Yeah, I guess." Moments later, her smile vanishes. Then she says, "Humphrey Bogart, her first husband, died in his fifties, just like Sanford. I read where he suffered horribly from his cancer. Sanford went quick. I guess there's something to be said for that."

We sip our coffee at the same time, not saying anything for a few moments. Then she puts her hand over mine and says, "Dennis, I've enjoyed chatting with you. And also appreciate the way you comforted me during my little crying jag. It means a lot."

"Happy to help," I say. "Anytime. Just call."

I assume that our talk is wrapping up. That is, until she says: "Are you in a hurry? I mean, I hope I'm not keeping you from your plans."

I tell her I'm going shopping later. But that's about it.

She draws me the sort of warm, seductive look that I'd seen watching Lauren Bacall in one of her noir movies. "Well then, perhaps you could keep me company for a while."

She rubs her hand over mine, saying nothing, doing nothing except pursing her sensual lips and dragging her tongue seductively over her mouth, painted with light lipstick. I find it seductive as hell. Then she says, "Dennis, I told you about missing Sanford's warm body next to mine in bed. Maybe I'm pushing the envelope here but...well, if you're not busy..." She giggles.

She doesn't have to complete the sentence. Her look alone tells me what she has in mind. And her actions tell me even more. She leans forward and puts her lips to mine. Our arms stay on the table in front of us--only our lips and tongues touch. In these few moments, we form a deeper connection, one out of something we both need at this moment. Communication can take many forms. Ours is silent until she says three words that make me think we'll soon form an even deeper connection: "Let's go upstairs."

Minutes later, we're in her bedroom, standing on her off-white carpeted floor next to her king-sized bed, half-covered with a sheet and brown blanket. "This bed is way too big for just one person," she says. "I'd like you to share it with me. Are you okay with that?" Not waiting for an answer, she begins to unbutton her blouse.

"Um, yeah, of course," I say, almost in a mumble watching her strip off her blouse and capri pants. My mouth hangs open in surreal disbelief, seeing her stand there in matching red lace panties and bra. Such beautiful skin, smooth and taut and light-tan in color. There's even a light sheen to it.

She chuckles and asks, "Are you sure you're okay with this?" Not waiting for an answer, she snaps off her bra, steps out of her panties and tosses them on a chair.

"More than okay," I say. "You're just so...beautiful."

She reaches out and begins to lift my V-neck pull-over. "Thanks. Now don't be shy. I'll be waiting."

She slips under the covers while I kick off my cross-trainers, and then dispense with my pull-over, blue shorts and underwear. Then I'm in bed, lying naked with Abbey Lane. The notion is so far-fetched that before this Saturday, I didn't picture it even in my wildest fantasies.

The AC window unit hums, cooling the room and sheets. And the feel of Abbey is something else altogether, lying diagonally across her front, her soft boobs pressed against my chest, her warm lips kissing my neck and chest. And she sure smells good, a scent that reminds me of peppermint. Surreal is too weak a word to describe how I feel. Magical. Out of body. Both are closer to the truth.

Abbey wanting to get intimate with me boosts my sensitive, late-teen ego. In addition to looking young for my age, I'm not what you'd call jacked. Six-pack? Not me. Not flabby either. Just your proverbial average physique that gets no double takes, nor deserves one. I'm not particularly athletic. Never was. My idea of playing sports is going bowling or engaging in an impromptu game of badminton or catch. I do have naturally broad shoulders. Also, I'm one of those people who can eat a lot and not gain weight. Between kisses, I say, "Abbey, I guess you like broad-shouldered, baby-faced guys."

Playfully, she pokes a finger on my thin nose. "Broad shoulders, yes, but that's trivial compared to your other qualities. I've always known you to be sensitive and kind and understanding beyond your years. I wouldn't have confided in you if you weren't. And I sure as hell wouldn't be doing this."

She obviously has faith in me, faith that I can make her feel better, faith that I can help take her mind off her sadness, at least for a little while. Giving her oral sex, I figure, will help do that. Ilene couldn't get enough of it. Even before I slip between her smooth, slender legs, I get the feeling that she smells good down there, or at least okay. In fact, she smells like coconut. "Even your pussy smells good," I say.

She lifts her head. "Yes, if you like the smell of coconut. I used something that does."

"I do like the smell of coconut."

"Then we're more in sync today than I imagined," she says, laughing.

She lowers her head back onto the pillow. Then I proceed to give her the best oral I know how to give. "Oh my, that feels so good!" she cries. "Keep going, Dennis, keep going."

She grips the sheets and rocks her body from side to side, while I stab my tongue into her coconut-scented honeypot, gaining more confidence as her moaning gets louder, her superlatives more numerous. This is heady stuff--no pun intended--pleasuring this hot, sexy woman who has known me since I was in grade school, who once played with her now grown children. I'm no "expert" by any means, yet she sure is making me feel like one. I hadn't planned on coming outside her pussy. So much for plans, because watching her climax this way gets me so hot that I come just rubbing my throbbing manhood against her thigh.

She's too busy recovering to notice right away. Lying flat on her back, she cups her hand to her forehead. "Whew! Ohmygod, Dennis, that's the first time I ever came close to passing out during climax. That tongue of yours is something else."

Lying beside her, I say, "Glad you liked it," and then grab a tissue from her night table and begin to wipe the cum from her leg. "Sorry about the mess."

She doesn't know what mess until she sits up. "Oh, my," she says, "I guess you couldn't wait. I felt your penis against me and then didn't feel much of anything else except this explosive feeling that began between my legs and then reverberated throughout my body." She brushes back her hair, then shakes her head. "Wow...that was unbelievable! Excuse me, I'll be right back. Now don't go anywhere."

She gets up, disposes the tissue in the bathroom and then hops back into bed. While we snuggle, she says, "You must stay awhile. I want you to make love to me. Don't worry, I'm still on the pill. Are you good for more?"

"I'm good for more and probably more after that. I have no intention of going anywhere." After planting a few kisses between her breasts, I continue. "Abbey, I'm thrilled being here with you like this. But I am curious. Have you gone out with anyone since Sanford died? A man around your age, I mean."

"No, I haven't. Single men that know me and know about Sanford have called to ask me out. Maybe with more time, I'll be ready. But not yet. Which I guess leaves you wondering why I'm lying naked here with you, a college kid from the neighborhood who I've known since he was knee-high to those tulips planted in my front lawn. True?"

"Well, yeah," I admit. "Not that I'm complaining. You make me feel special."

She kisses my hair. Then she says, "You ARE special, Dennis. You're a strapping young man who knows how to please. Oh, do you ever! You might not believe this, but I didn't plan for this to happen. But then, while sitting in the kitchen with you, the void in my life created by Sanford's death hit me hard, harder than usual, and cried out for something I needed and what you're now proving up to the task of providing. Maybe those men who called could have helped, I don't know. But maybe they also would expect something long-term which I'm not yet ready for. Right now, you're the right guy for the job, a breath of fresh, youthful air that I so need in my life right now. Hope that clarifies things."

It does. The age disparity, she seems to be saying, is actually a plus in light of where she is emotionally. She needs me during this difficult time in her life, needs me to help her get through it, and I'm more than okay with that. I have needs also, needs that she's also proving up to the task of providing.

Meanwhile, speaking of mutual needs, she wants to be made love to. Needless to say, I'm more than up for that delicious task, figuratively as well as literally. She notices. Gleefully, she says, "Oh, you sure are good for more." She strokes me a few times, then lays on her back, spreads her legs and gently guides me inside her.

It doesn't take me long to find the "right" rhythm, to have her moaning in delight. Tenderly I kiss her, fully aware of how much she's hurting, how vulnerable and fragile she is. My lips and tongue roam elsewhere also, to her firm breasts and her flat tummy. I like looking at her beautiful face, watching her open and close her eyes, watching the loving way she smiles up at me. Eyeing the lovely taper of her shapely calves is a special treat to behold. I'd seen her in high heels before, never dreaming that one day her sexy legs would be wrapped around me.

"You're delicious, in smell, taste and touch," I tell her. "Simply delicious."

She responds with a faint smile. At least I think she does. Does she even hear me? It's hard to tell in her heated, frenzied state. I sense that she's approaching climax. She confirms it with moans that sound more like shrieks, pronounced breathing and accelerated pelvic thrusts. And then she's there and then I follow and then we kiss and cuddle, our bodies touching, glistening with sweat and the sweet smell of sex.

"I believe you told me I was delicious," she says, her head resting on my chest.

"I did."

"Just confirming. I was barely conscious, near delirium, could barely hear you." She sighs. "Dennis, what you do for me takes my breath away."

"The feeling is mutual," I say. "I hope we can keep this going."

She nods. "Yes, absolutely. I'd be crazy to think otherwise."

After a few minutes of silence, punctuated with light kisses, she says, "Dennis, for the last hour or so, you made me one happy gal. You managed to ease my sadness. It's temporary, I know, but a respite from pain, no matter how brief, is better than no respite at all."

"I'm so glad," I say.

We cuddle for a while longer, then dress. Well, sort of. Abbey throws on a sexy gold kimono, while I make do with just my Hanes underwear. "Sex makes me hungry," I say.

"Me too," she says, "which is why I'll make us some lunch."

I sit at the kitchen table, watching a barefoot Abbey fixing us sliced turkey club sandwiches on rye, chips on the side, iced tea for our drinks. The kimono exposes half her luscious thighs. "I'm gawking at you," I say.

She does a half-turn, "Yes, I know. I can feel your eyes on me." Teasingly, she lifts up the back to expose her butt, cute and bare, with just a touch of cellulite.

When she starts to carry our plates over to the table, my eyes focus on her thighs and breasts, half-exposed and delectable as honeydew. "If I had a waitress that looked like you, dressed like that, I wouldn't be able to eat. Those young babes at Hooters have nothing on you."

She grins, sits down and says, "And if I had known how good you were in bed, I would have called about the furniture a lot sooner."

We eat in silence for a while. Then she says, "Dennis, you said you wanted to keep this going. Well, so do I. But it won't be easy. You live close by with your parents. We need to be careful. Do they know where you are right now?"

"Yeah, they do. I guess they figure you have lots of furniture to move. At least I'm hoping they figure that. Anyway, I doubt they or anyone else will suspect what we're up to."