It bothered me, like really bothered me that at 19 years old I would spend so much of my time thinking about Mrs. Cathedra. It didn't make any sense. She's over 50, over-weight and, I gather, a childless widow. But I couldn't shake her; she's on my mind most of the fucking day and, honestly, I don't know why.
I do know that I want to fuck her, and that doesn't make any sense, either. I am a virgin, have absolutely no experience with women, and don't know why I wanted to initiate myself into the world of sex with Mrs Cathedra. I just do.
In fact, Mrs Cathedra is much older than my own mother and different from her in every way. My mother is slim, hip, funny, excitable and blond. Mrs Cathedra appears hefty, shy, quiet, conservative and dark. But there is something about her that gets to me, and it isn't just her big breasts, although they are probably a factor. And her size might be, too: when I think of being with her, as I do constantly, I am enveloped in her, almost smothered in her, it excites the hell out of me, the thought of lying in her flesh.
But there is something about her that attracts me that isn't merely physical — and I don't quite know what it is. It could be her apparent vulnerability or her shyness; maybe I think I can be sort of like a saviour to her. Or maybe there is a side of me that needs to help people, and she is the most convenient target. I don't know what it is but I think of her all the time, think of being with her.
Mrs. Cathedra lives across from us in an attractive house on the other side of the strip of green belt running between our properties. And most of the time, that's where I see her, on the green belt; most every night she walks from one end of the belt to the other, maybe two miles in all. I have never spoken to her; wouldn't know what to say to her if I did. But I'm getting really frustrated that she is over there, not 500 feet from my bedroom window and I am here, in my bedroom, looking at her house, imagining what she's doing in there.
And I didn't know how I was going to get a chance to find out, to meet her. I thought through a thousand ploys but I rejected each one for one reason or another. But there is one tactic that stays with me. It is bold, daring and wrong but if it works it would certainly set in train the events I have long hoped would transpire.
In evaluating my options, I had skulked out Mrs. Cathedra's property. As I said, she has an attractive house with a small back yard that is surrounded by a tall fence, wooden on two side and a high, nicely trimmed cedar bush facing the greenbelt where I discovered it was possible to gain access to her backyard by squeezing through a small space beneath the foliage near the left fence.
Her back yard is very small and very neat, with one of those circular clothes lines in the corner where, in early evening after I saw Mrs. Cathedra leave for her walk, I squeezed through the opening. On the line was white washing and I was surprised to see some very delicate underwear hanging limply in the sun. My dink wasn't. At the first sight of Mrs. Cathedra's panties and bras I got a ranging hard-on. So much for my plan. There were two bras and five panties on the line, all white. I took one of the bras and one of the panties, stuffed them in my pockets and got the hell out of there.
I wore myself damn near raw while looking at them and feeling them and imagining Mrs. Cathedra in them. She looked kind of beautiful: full-figured, sure, and not young, far from it, but she looked really good in the white bra and panties ... for about a week, and then I started feeling like a thief, and the worse kind of thief, a sneeking panty thief and I started to really dislike myself. I could have chucked them out, that would have been the easy way out, and I was going to, too, maybe five times, but I really felt like a shit so when I rang her doorbell and handed her the bag and said, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Cathedra, I stole these from your clothes line," I really meant it. I was sorry.
She took the bag from me and looked inside, "Oh," was her reaction, but she looked a little shocked, too. "Why would you take them?"
I said it before I thought it through, "May I come in?"
She frowned with uncertainty but then stood aside and I walked in and closed the door behind me. "My name is Bill Harvard, I live just across the way. From my bedroom window I've see you out walking, maybe a hundred times. I love to look at you, Mrs. Cathedra."
She was as confused as she was shocked. "You do?"
"That's why I got into your back yard. I wanted to see if there was some way I could ... look at you, like through your window. But your underwear was on the line and I couldn't resist it. I took some and I ... ah, used it until I started to feel ashamed of myself. But I couldn't just throw it away so I brought it back and I want to apologize for stealing it ..." then I quickly added, "but I don't apologize for watching you and thinking of you. I'm an adult, Mrs. Cathedra, you're an adult and you have needs and so do I."
She didn't say anything, she just looked at the bag.
"Do you understand me?"
"I think I do, yes."
"And?"
"And why would a young man like you think that way about an elderly woman ..."
"I don't know, but I do and I'll be very respectful and very discreet but I have to ask you if you'll ... if we could ... if I could ... touch you?"
She had been concentrating on the bag but she slowly looked up at me, obviously having no idea where any of this was coming from. "Why would you ask such a thing?"
I had nothing to lose now, I'd already made a bigger fool of myself than I thought possible, but, strangely, I had some hope, she hadn't slapped me or yelled at me or ordered me out of the house. "Because I've wanted to for so many months, I can't help myself. Do you want me to go?"
"I want you to explain yourself, why would you ask me such a thing?"
"Why would I steal your underwear? Why would I masturbate all the time imagining you in them? Why do I look out my window waiting to see you? I don't know why I do these things, Mrs. Cathedra, I just do. I want to be with you."
"You should go."
I felt a crashing defeat. "I'm sorry." And I quickly turned to go, to escape.
"But you can have these." She was smiling when I turned back. "I was young once, too." She held out the bag.
But I didn't take it. "Then you know how I'm feeling?"
"Well," she hesitated, uncertainly, "as I said, I was young once, too."
I took the bag from her and reached into it and pulled out her panties and handed them to her. Instinctively, she reached out and took them. "You think I kidding about this. But I'm not. I'm an adult. I want to be with you. I'd like you to take me seriously." I reached into the bag and got her bra and handed that to her, too.
She threw her underwear onto a chair, "Ok, Bill, I'll take you seriously. Have a seat, would you like something to drink? A coke?"
I was so surprised by her rapid change that I said, "Really?"
"Have a seat, I'll get us some cokes."
When she headed for the kitchen I sat down in a chair, then reconsidered and moved to the couch and I waited nervously and in a couple of minutes she returned, put two cokes on the table and sat down on the couch, too. "So, how did you expect me to react to all of this?" She was looking at me intently. She wanted to know.
"I didn't have any expectations. I thought I'd just hand you the bag and leave. I didn't expect to come inside, I didn't expect to be sitting here like this, talking to you."
"And now that you are, what are you thinking."
"I'm thinking that you are really cool."
She got up went over to the chair picked up her underwear and came back and before she sat down she threw it on my lap. "Show me what you did with these."
