This all happened a while ago now — before the Interweb really took off — back in the days when most of the ‘interesting’ magazines were displayed discreetly on the top shelf of some newsagents’ racks (and not at all in WHSmith). The magazines were often sealed in plastic wrappers so that only the mastheads showed. It was also a time when portable moving images of a certain kind were really only available on VHS cassettes, cassettes which you purchased from the back room of certain establishments, or had the postman deliver in plain packaging.
Tom’s school reports were not good. It wasn’t for lack of effort on Tom’s part. He tried as hard as anyone. Maybe even harder. He just didn’t seem to be able to get the hang of book learning.
He tried to persuade his parents that he should leave school at the end of the year that he turned 17. ‘Maybe I could get a job down at the pottery factory,’ he said. ‘They’re always advertising for people.’
His father, who was a brick-layer specialising in high end restoration work, wasn’t convinced. ‘I worked in a factory. Briefly. A long time ago now. It was soul destroying. Stuck inside. Doing the same thing day in and day out. You’d hate it. Why don’t you just give school one more year? You never know … this might be the year when everything clicks for you.’
Tom did give school one more year. But it made no difference. At least it made no difference to his exam results. He did, however, win school colours for both rugby and cricket. Tom was a well-built lad with excellent ball skills and a knack for ‘reading the game’. Had it been 20 years later, he might have been able to go on to make a reasonable living as a professional sportsman. But, back when Tom turned 18, half million pound sports salaries were still hiding just around the corner.
It was Tom’s mother who saw the ad for a nursery assistant.
‘Nursery assistant! Little kids!’ Tom had said. ‘You must be joking! I’d be totally hopeless at that.’
‘No. Not that kind of nursery,’ his mother said. ‘Plants. Trees. You know. You like plants. You like trees. You like growing things.’
It was true. Tom did like growing things. He had pretty much taken over the family’s little vegetable garden. Beans. Tomatoes. Lettuces. Courgettes. He had even managed a small crop of new potatoes. ‘But wouldn’t I need an ology of some sort?’ he said.
‘It doesn’t say anything about that in the ad. It just says that you need to be fit — which you are — and you need to like working outdoors — which you do. And it says “full training will be given”. You need to apply in writing. But I can help you with that.’
Bert Barclay, the nursery’s owner, telephoned Tom the following morning (this was back in the days when a first class letter got first class treatment). ‘I’ve read your application,’ he said, ‘and I think that we should meet. If you can catch the train across, I’ll come and pick you up from the station. And, of course, I’ll reimburse you for your train fare — whatever we decide.’
Bert Barclay wasn’t quite what Tom had been expecting. He was probably close to 60, only about five foot three, and he walked with a pronounced limp and the assistance of an gnarled ash walking stick. (Tom later discovered that Bert had had polio as a child.) But Bert and Tom got on right from the word go.
‘Will you be needing somewhere to live?’ Bert asked after he had offered Tom the job.
‘I suppose I will,’ Tom said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Molly Macklin. Her place is just down the road. We gaziantep escort passed it on our way from the station. Couldn’t be more convenient. A three-minute walk. And since her husband died, she likes to have a boarder. I suspect for the company as much as anything else. Malcolm, who was boarding with her while he attended agricultural college, has just moved back to Scotland. We could go and see if she’s at home if you like.’
Mrs Macklin was at home, and they arranged for Tom to move in on the following weekend.
Tom was surprised by how quickly he learned the basics of the nursery business. Bert was an excellent teacher. But it probably also helped that Tom was learning by doing and not trying to learn from a book. Tom even began to get the hang of plant taxonomy and botanical nomenclature.
Life with Molly Macklin was also surprisingly agreeable. Mrs Macklin reminded Tom of a slightly younger version of his grandmother. She wasn’t old fashioned. She was just a good honest countrywoman. And she was an excellent cook of traditional country-style food. Tom liked his food. And working out in the fresh air at the nursery did nothing to diminish his appetite.
‘Don’t worry about making your bed in the morning,’ Mrs Macklin told Tom when he had only been there for three or four days. ‘I can do that for you.’ Tom noticed that she also took to tidying his room from time to time. Not that Tom was especially untidy, but … well … it all helped to make him feel at home in his new home away from home.
On most Tuesday evenings, Molly Macklin went to a women’s book group that met in the nearby village hall. This left Tom with the house to himself. It was an ideal opportunity for Tom, 18 and filled to the brim with testosterone, to get out his ‘top shelf’ magazines and enjoy a leisurely wank.
It was on a particular Tuesday evening that Tom left the supper table (they had finished eating their supper) and went to his room to get a jumper. When he returned, the table had been cleared and Molly Macklin appeared to have already left for her book group. Usually she told Tom when she was going out. But maybe she had been running late. Oh, well. Tom waited in the kitchen for ten minutes or so just in case she hadn’t left. But Mrs Macklin didn’t return. Satisfied that he now had the house to himself, Tom went to his room and pulled out a carefully-concealed copy of Readers’ Wives.
Tom preferred magazines like Readers’ Wives to some of the slicker magazines — Penthouse and the like. There was something wonderfully dirty about the amateur nature of the models and the photography in magazines of the Readers’ Wives genre.
Natalie of Northhants (who may or may not have actually been called Natalie, and may or may not have actually been from Northhants) got his cock started that evening. Natalie was probably in her early 30s. She looked a bit like Chrissie Hynde when she had dark hair. And she had a cheeky grin. And then, with his free hand, Tom turned the page to feast on equally stimulating images of Hannah from Hull. Hannah was a slightly buxom blonde, and she too seemed pretty pleased to be showing off what she had to offer. And then …
Tom would normally have closed his bedroom door but, for some reason, on that particular Tuesday evening, he didn’t. He had probably been a bit distracted. Molly Macklin’s uncharacteristic unannounced departure had probably thrown him slightly. And so, when he looked up from his initial perusal of Hannah from Hull, the door was wide open. And hatay escort standing in the doorway was his landlady. She was smiling. Or perhaps smirking might be a better word. And she was slowly nodding.
Molly Macklin was wearing her full-length bathrobe. ‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘Readers’ Wives. My late husband was a great fan of Readers’ Wives. He didn’t think that I knew. He used to keep them hidden — although not very well hidden, obviously. Which was a pity really. I would have loved for us to have sat down, side by side, and leafed through them together. Believe me, I dropped enough hints. But perhaps my hints were too subtle. Perhaps I should have just come out and said: “Charlie, I would really like you and me to sit and read your mucky magazines together.” I don’t know why I didn’t. I should have. But now it’s too late.’
Molly Macklin adjusted the tie on her bathrobe. ‘I think that it would have been nice for us to have sat, side by side, turning the pages, admiring the … umm … assets of those ladies who seemed so keen to have their assets admired. Who knows, I might even have persuaded Charlie to take some naughty pictures of me.
‘I think it might have been quite nice to have had some photographs of me in titillating lingerie. You know the sort of thing. Peek-a-boo bras. Crotchless knickers. Photographs of me without any knickers at all.’ And Molly Macklin laughed. ‘Close-ups of my …’ And she gestured to the area of her crotch. ‘I’m probably a bit too old for Readers’ Wives now. But there are other publications, aren’t there? 50 Plus I think. Is that one of them? Yes, I think so. I’m pretty sure that I saw 50 Plus on the top shelf at the petrol station. I think there may even be a 60 Plus now. We’re all getting older, aren’t we?
‘I thought perhaps the magazines with the older women were designed for older men, but a couple of the women at my book group were saying that, these days, many younger men enjoy looking at pictures of older women. And why wouldn’t they? Yes, why wouldn’t they? Susan said that she saw a magazine in Germany (I think it was Germany) that was devoted entirely to saucy photographs of grandmothers. Or supposed grandmothers, anyway.
‘What do you think,’ Molly Macklin said, ‘would I pass muster?’ And she untied the tie of her bathrobe and let it fall open.
Tom had not been prepared for Molly Macklin’s appearance. Throughout her monologue, he had just looked and listened, slightly incredulously. Although, perhaps without realising it, he had maintained a grip on his erect cock.
‘Would a selection of photographs of me get that magnificent young cock of yours to stand up and pay attention do you think?’
For her age, Molly Macklin was in surprisingly good shape. Tom even wondered if she followed some sort of secret exercise regime.
Her breasts were still partly covered by her open bathrobe, but they appeared — to Tom at least — to be slightly larger than average. Not massive. Just a little bit larger. And they drooped slightly. And pointed slightly to the sides — as they sometimes do with women of a certain age. ‘The girls,’ she said, and she took a breast in each hand, lifted them a little, and brought them together.
Tom just nodded.
‘I should probably just take this off completely, shouldn’t I?’ Molly Macklin said. ‘I don’t know why I’m standing here half dressed.’ And she shrugged her bathrobe off her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. ‘There … now you can see the girls properly. What do you think? Perhaps in hatay escort the right magazine?’ And she rubbed her large areolae, and rolled her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, and stretched them slightly.
Tom could see what she meant. Yes. Molly Macklin’s breasts would certainly not look out of place in the pages of 50 Plus. He hadn’t seen the German magazine, but he could sort of imagine it and, yes, they might look right at home there too.
Molly Macklin was wearing bright red knickers, shiny, with a pink embroidered design — stylised roses perhaps — on one side. The knickers came right up to her waist but they were quite high-cut at the sides, accentuating the length of her legs. ‘I do like a bit of colour,’ she said. And she did a slow twirl, so that Tom could appreciate the way in which the red knickers stretched across her well-padded bum. ‘What do you think?’ And then, having turned back to face Tom, she took hold of the waistband and slowly, very slowly, teasingly, she eased it down enough to uncover her pale, gently-rounded tummy. Yes, Tom could definitely see her in a top shelf magazine.
‘But we don’t need these right now, do we?’ And Molly Macklin pushed her knickers the rest of the way down, over her shapely hips, and past slightly-sturdy thighs. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘That’s me. That’s Molly from Marshfield.’
The casually tousled hair on Molly Macklin’s head was dark blonde — albeit liberally streaked with silver. So Tom was a little surprised to see that the hair on her plumpish pubic mound, while a little sparse compared with the luxuriant snatch thatch sported by Natalie of Northhants, was quite a bit darker.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Molly Macklin said.
‘You’re … umm … gorgeous,’ Tom said.
Molly Macklin laughed gently. ‘Gorgeous? Oh, I don’t know about that. Still … I’d like to hope that I can still get a reaction from the opposite sex.’
Tom nodded. ‘Well …’ And he looked down at his cock which was standing like a steel pylon.
Molly Macklin smiled too. ‘Tell you what … why don’t I just sit on this chair — and perhaps spread my legs a bit for you, and give myself a bit of a tickle up. And you can finish off what you were doing when I interrupted you? Shall we do that? You and I? Shall we?’
What was Tom to say? To decline such an invitation would be discourteous to say the least.
Tom boarded with Molly Macklin for almost another two years after that. Tom continued to collect the odd top-shelf magazine. He even managed to find a copy of the German magazine devoted to the erotic portrayal of grandmothers. And it was good. It was very good. But rather than keeping his collection hidden away, Tom now shared it with his new masturbating partner: Molly from Marshfield.
And, perhaps not surprisingly, one thing occasionally led to another. Sometimes, on a cold night, Molly from Marshfield would climb into Tom’s bed — just to share the particular warmth that one naked body can pass to another. And sometimes they would wake in the night and Tom would need to find somewhere to put his unruly young cock. ‘I know just the place for that,’ Molly would say.
The ‘arrangement’ might have continued on for more than the two years but, at the suggestion of Bert Barclay, Tom took up a scholarship at The Royal Horticultural Society’s Tangle Down Plant Research Centre.
‘I shall miss you,’ Molly Macklin told Tom. ‘I shall miss your company. And I shall miss out little get-togethers.’
‘Perhaps you could come and visit me,’ Tom told her. ‘I think it’s only about three-quarters of an hour on the train.’
Molly Macklin smiled. ‘Perhaps I could,’ she said. ‘Yes. Perhaps I could. And, of course, you could still come and visit me.’
‘I will,’ Tom assured her. ‘Yes, I will.’