Preamble:
I threw this together the Sunday after Christmas. The kids had all left, the house was quiet, I'd already checked my eyelids for holes and didn't want to watch TV. My thoughts went back to 24 hours earlier on Christmas night. All of the littles were in bed asleep, my kids and their spouses were in the dining room playing cards while I tried to snooze in the family room. I woke to laughter and then heard my daughter say, "No, really, I'm not shittin you." She went on to relate how a local young man in their neighborhood had been shacking up with an older woman for several years before it became public. Though they were both of consenting age, the difference in years created fodder for the local gossip machine.
What my son said is what gave me the idea for this story. His words were, "How desperate are you when you start hosing down the widow next door, the one who babysat you years ago?" That was followed by a chorus of laughter. As they guffawed I thought back to my time as a young man when I worked for a widowed farmers wife in Nebraska. Long story short, though she was over twice my age she had me in her bed in less than three weeks, and that's where I stayed all summer. Her name was Sarah Langston and was not a knockout in any way, she was average in every sense of the word. I certainly was not about to tell them of my escapade, but their story gave me the idea for this little ditty.
I read stories about the housewives with well-toned butts, a perfect hourglass figure, perky tits, and six pack abs after having children. The reality is that they are few and far between, yet it seems to be the norm in Literotica stories. This isn't about one of those women, it's about how most of society looks, average and normal. There will always be those who stand out amongst the rest, but by and large they are the exception and not the rule.
In erotic stories the standard "neighbor lady" is usually portrayed as hot and horny. This one did this, or that one did whatever, the one down the street beds the mailman, yada, yada, yada, it's never ending. Here's my story about a lady who lived next door to a young man through most of his formative and several of his young adult years. Unlike most neighbor lady stories it didn't start when he turned 18. She wasn't the sexy lady next door in a micro-bikini by the pool waiting to be turned into a cock swallowing slut by the sexy hunk of a teenager living 100 feet away. She didn't have firm, perky breasts, or a well-toned ass and legs that went to her arm pits, she was just... well... Mrs. Bridges.
Mrs. Bridges
Stella Bridges was twenty-four when she began babysitting me as a four-year-old ankle biting brat. My parents had and were mostly focused on their careers. Mrs. B worked from home and took care of her twins, adding my care for a minimal fee easily fit into her schedule. Her five-year-old twin girls and I got along well, had they not been blonde and me dark haired you wouldn't have known we weren't siblings. As a kid I was confused about babies, the girls would talk about how they were going to have a baby brother or sister, Mrs. B's tummy would get bigger and then it would be flat again, but no baby. It wasn't until several years later that I learned she had miscarried three times before they stopped trying.
My parents on the other hand were completely absorbed in their careers and wanted no more children. I was it, once and done, as long as Mrs. B was there to take care of me it was no problem. My parents weren't bad parents by any stretch of the imagination, I never went without, I never felt neglected, and one or both made it to every school activity I was involved with. I just felt a stronger connection to the Bridges family, where I tended to spend most of the time when my parents weren't home.
Somewhere along the line I began calling Mrs. Bridges Teeda, I have no idea where it came from. I couldn't call her mom and wanted more than to address her as Mrs. Bridges when I spoke with her, something with more meaning, it became like a code word for "second mom". Teeda was different than my mom or most others I knew, mine was always dressed professionally unless at home, even then she dressed as though someone was going to pop in unannounced.
I think I saw her in sweats all of three times before she passed, and never in a state of undress whatsoever. I'd seen her underwear and eventually figured out how it all worked, but I'd never seen it on her. Most of the other neighborhood ladies tended to dress along with whatever trend was popular at the time. Teeda, she was different, now that I'm older I realize that she was like a modern version of June Cleaver. The only times I saw her in something other than a dress or skirt and blouse is when she was working in her garden.
The other thing I noticed, but never wondered about, is that unless it was beastly hot and humid she always wore nylons or stockings. It was in my teen years when I figured out what that funny looking garment on the clothesline was, thanks to the girls Victoria Secret web site I learned it was a garter belt. Something meant solely for holding up stockings, not panty hose, but nylons or stockings. They soon became my go to inspiration when the pressures of a teenage boy became more than I could withstand, which always ended with me taking things in hand.
My life changed dramatically the summer before my seventeenth birthday. Something my folks and I did do as a family was go to Canada fishing every spring, I found it ironic that two highly skilled scientists would have such a love for fishing. We would drive to a base camp in Canada and then be flown into our destination, always some remote location with a guide and boat. I played baseball in high school, our team had won regionals and was headed for sectionals that year, I wanted to stay home and play ball instead of fish.
Because I often stayed overnight at the Bridges they had long since made a room for me in their finished basement, having somewhere to stay if I didn't go fishing would not be an issue. Our team was quickly eliminated from sectionals, I was feeling depressed wishing I'd gone fishing with my folks when Sunday morning Teeda came downstairs with tears streaming from her eyes. I couldn't imagine what may have happened to make her cry like that, the girls were fine, her marriage seemed solid, they never seemed to be without money. What could it be?
I'd been sitting on an old couch in my makeshift room when she walked in, immediately she sat down taking me into her arms, still sobbing and mumbling, "I'm so sorry Jacob, I'm so sorry." I knew it was bad, she never called me Jacob, it was always Jake. Pushing back enough to escape her embrace I asked.
"What's wrong Teeda, what happened? Did Mr. Bridges get hurt?"
She took a deep breath, holding it long enough to gain her composure, "No Jake, it's not us, it's your folks. The plane crashed and there are no survivors. I'm so sorry."
A week later Mr. and Mrs. Bridges, the girls and I were in Canada to take possession of the bodies. I wasn't aware that my folks had listed the Bridges as my guardians should anything happen to them. Their last will and testament also stated they wanted to be cremated and their ashes spread in the Atlantic off the coast of New Foundland. All of their worldly goods would become mine at the age of 21, until then I would have access to a trust fund to be overseen by Mrs. Bridges.
Within a few weeks my childhood home was listed for sale, something inside told me to keep it until I was at least 21. When I told Teeda I would like to live in it one day she took it off the market and leased it to a young couple with two kids. It would be mine when I was an adult and ready to take on the responsibilities of owning a home. I moved into the Bridges home, they graciously finished a half bath I'd been using, adding a shower and a walk-in closet to the room in the basement. Somehow the girls and I became closer over the next year, which was unusual because we were almost joined at the hips anyway.
