Aiding Ms. Bronson
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 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 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 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?"
Aiding Ms. Bronson
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