Mrs. K – 1

Do you find that in this sometimes painful sometimes wonderful world of ours that life’s pleasures are best enjoyed when they come unexpectedly? I do. That’s how it was with me and Mrs Kellerman. Unexpected, and fine, very, very fine.

I met Mrs K when I was staying at my aunt’s house one summer. At the time immediately before I met her, I was in a kind of down-hearted frame of mind. Shortly after I met her I was flying high on my own personal cloud. Now, I have a precise, precious memory of this beautiful, curvaceous woman of, I’d guess around her mid-fifties (it is rude to ask I’ve been told), with a warm smile and a kind heart, not to mention a ripe full figure and accommodating wet and warm mouth, pussy, and asshole.

Mrs Kellerman was a neighbour of my aunt’s. I hadn’t stayed at my aunt’s for many years; she and my uncle had a large, rambling property in the West Country of England and my visit was not out of choice, it was a necessity. I’m in the British Royal Navy; I have been for the four years since I left university, struggling in vain so far to rise from my junior officer rank. I’d just finished a five month tour of patrol duty with no leave in a frigate around firstly Gibraltar, then the Gulf and the coastal waters off Iraq, not far from Basra. Not fun. Routine, mundane stuff, but with just enough possibility of violent encounters to never relax properly.

When leave finally came I headed back to my flat in London and looked forward to a couple of months relaxing playing sports, drinking with my buddies and making up for lost time with my girlfriend Fiona. This was not to be, however. Firstly, Fiona, who seemed to have lost about twenty pounds in weight in my absence making her appear drawn and skinny rather than the full-figured girl I first fell for, gave me rather a cool instead of warm welcoming home, and announced that she had got a “great” new job with an American publishing company and would be working in New York for several months, starting immediately; and secondly, and equally depressingly, a mere 24 hours into my leave I got a call from my ship’s captain outlining the charming fact that in one month I would be skippering a motor patrol boat between the dangerous Iraq-Iran waterways for at least six months, and that as from the next day I would be on a three-week intensive Arab language course at a college in the West Country. It was not very welcome news, to put it mildly, although I’d do the best I could.

After one night with Fiona and an unsatisfactory, quick fuck, which for me was just a brief release of tension and for her a quick break from talking about her bright future, I threw some clothes into a rucksack and caught the train West after my car, my very expensive car, whose rash purchase had left me flat broke for the immediate past and future, had refused to start. With my expenses to be paid, in true fashion, “at a later date,” I rang my Aunt, who fortunately lived near the college and I arranged to stay there.

My aunt and uncle were due to leave for a weeks break in Ireland the day after I arrived which meant I’d be alone with time to reflect on my dissatisfaction with my naval career and my clearly failing relationship with Fiona. Too much time for introspection, is not often a good thing, I’ve found. The college I was to attend, although a regular civilian, not military one, was on its summer break, so there were not even any fine eighteen year-old girls to admire. Instead, there were only a few language summer courses being run, and my time there was spent in a class with a dozen middle-aged male government employees brushing up their language skills for brief, lucrative postings in the Middle-East. The teacher was an annoying Algerian guy with a particularly sarcastic sense of humour, and I found learning the Arab language simultaneously both tedious and difficult. All in all it was a chore and a bore.

The town itself was small and insular in outlook; the nightlife where I could spend the little money I had seemed to consist of a couple of pretentious, expensive wine-bars full of couples, and scruffy pubs largely frequented by groups of late teenagers resplendent in their baseball caps and gold sovereign rings, swearing and sometimes dancing to loud garage and rap music. Neither entertainment was my thing. It seemed a few really dull weeks were likely, especially as the first weekend found me too short of money to even scrape the train fare home. Saturday passed studying and watching sports on the TV, and eating a bad microwave meal, followed by a couple of hours drinking alone in the local pub.

After a lazy Sunday morning spent reading the newspapers, followed by some lunch, I decided to do some work on the property outside, partly to ease my boredom and partly to catch some sun on a rare hot day.