Mature Mrs. Hallam s Photos

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"Oh, I didn't know those were up here."

"I wasn't looking."

My face burned because she knew it was a lie. She gave me one of those looks, almost like pity, her expression all about, Oh ... Come on ... really?

Then she said it out loud. "I think you were. But it's all right. You don't have to lie."

"I'm sorry," I said as my cheeks flared hotter. Mortified, I felt sweat prickle along my spine.

She shrugged and moved closer to me. I passed them to her when she held out her hand.

"God, I don't know what you must think," she said as she flipped through the photos.

Some were black and white, others were colour, the tones washed out and faded with age while a few were more recent. Some of the photos were glossy while some had a matt finish. A lot of the monochrome pictures had a white border and there were some polaroids in the shoebox. It was obvious they encompassed a long period of time. I couldn't guess at how many occasions they recorded, but she was younger in some, older in others.

Her eyes came up for a second when she said it. Then she went back to the photos again. She went through them quickly, with a cursory glance at each before moving to the next like she was handling a deck of cards.

I was embarrassed for myself because she'd caught me with my nose in what wasn't my business, but also for her because of what she was doing in every single one of those pictures.

"I'm sorry," I said again because I didn't know what else to say. Plus, she made me feel uncomfortable. I was awkward when she was around. It was instinctive, something primal in me which put me on edge. She looked like an old-fashioned schoolmarm. Attractive yet stern despite her smiles and elegant diction. She had an aura about her, sexy but scary. I knew she was up around 50. My boss, Bernie, had made a lewd comment as we'd driven to the house. Bernie had the same opinion about Mrs Hallam's sexual appeal as me, which he'd voiced as he told me about the job while we rattled along in the battered Ford Transit, tools loose in the back.

Then, like those photos were nothing more than old holiday pictures from a time long before mobile phones and digital cameras, she got to the last one in the pack and gave a sigh, the sound nostalgic while she looked at me with a wistful cast to her smile.

"These must go back to ... Oh, let me think," Mrs Hallam said, pausing before adding, "nineteen fifty-eight or -nine? Something like that."

Then she looked at the pack and showed me the one at the top. It was her with a thick, veiny cock in her mouth. She was wearing a hat, her lips around the cock, big boobs draped over the man's thigh as he fed her his meat. It was lewd and made my cock twitch because it was her in the picture. I'd seen pornography before but hadn't been face-to-face with the model.

"Garden party last summer," Mrs Hallam explained. "That's the one of the barmen we hired I've got in my mouth. My husband took the picture." Mrs Hallam paused and glanced at the shoebox. "My husband took just about all of those photos," she said, casual, not a care in the world. Like it was an everyday thing to have a visiting tradesman - well, apprentice - discover your stash of private, personalised pornography in a shoebox up in the attic. "He's in a few," Mrs Hallam continued, "my husband. But he prefers to watch and take the pictures. It doesn't mean anything. It's just a bit of dirty fun. I don't let them fuck me, and I don't mind sucking a cock. It's very exciting to watch a man come. I've done it dozens of times. Probably hundreds."

Speechless, I just shrugged and looked past her for a way out. We were in the attic, which meant the sole point for access and egress was the sturdy, telescopic ladder behind her. I was too slow to react when she first appeared. I hadn't heard her climb the ladder. It wasn't one of those flimsy aluminium jobs. It was solid, well made. It didn't creak or rattle and her head and shoulders were through the sizeable hatch before I knew she was there.

"I didn't mean to look at them," I said, blurting it out.

My stomach flipped over several times when she just looked at me, the photos in her left hand, her expression showing something I couldn't define. Still caught up in the shock of her catching me looking, I was more concerned with getting away. It was the fight or flight response kicking in. My hands and legs trembled and my heart raced like a jet fighter screeching into the sky. But there was something disturbing in the way she smirked and stared at me which also caused a reaction. My cock, already hard from looking at the photos, pulsed and seeped precum, the goo clammy and sticky, and I actually felt my scrotum go tight as the skin shrunk around my tingling balls. I was supposed to be working, lining the walls of the attic, and I was concerned that I was in trouble. I was anxious in case she dobbed me in to Bernie, which on hindsight, was a silly idea, but it was confusing to feel my body's response to her presence and that look in her eyes.

She kept smirking and said, "Shocked you, hasn't it?"

What did she expect? I was up there doing a job. It was another day's work and I had nothing on my mind beyond a couple of technical problems and a vague notion the weekend was only two days away. Boarded out years before, there was all the usual stuff stored in the attic: a couple of old suitcases with leather corners, a Christmas tree in a battered box taped at the corners and edges, golf clubs, a shoebox full of photographs of Mrs Hallam sucking cock...

"I ... I need to get something from downstairs," I managed to say.

To which she tutted and folded her arms beneath her sizeable breasts. On that afternoon, Mrs Hallam was wearing a light summer dress in some sort of wraparound style. Loosely belted in the middle the dress, had a deep V at the neck, and while I hadn't exactly perved at her, I was aware of Mrs Hallam's ripe voluptuousness.

"Oh, Jason," she said through her grin, "you don't have to run away." She held up the pictures. "Don't get all funny about these," she added. "They're not a secret. Well," she went on after pulling a face, "my children haven't seen them, of course. God, I'd die if they knew their mother was such a slut!"

Mrs Hallam rolled her eyes and gave a wry chuckle.

"I don't know what he was thinking by leaving them up here," she said, one eyebrow raised.

I found out later that she was the one who put the shoebox in the attic. Mrs Hallam confessed when the situation moved on from her initial seduction that, bored during the day while her husband was at work, she fancied diversion and thought it'd be fun to tease the nineteen-year-old lad working in the attic.

"Mrs Hallam, it's none of my business," I gasped, desperate to get her out of the attic.

"It's a thing we do," Mrs Hallam continued.

She flipped through a couple of photos again, then glanced at the shoebox.

"Just a bit of excitement," she told me, eyes on my face.

"Uh-huh. Okay," I said.

"My husband likes watching."

My cock pulsed again when I heard her say it.

"Gets him randy," she said.

"Mrs Hallam-" I started, stopping when she held up a hand.

"Still does," she said. "Fucks me like he did when we were courting. He gets very worked up."

I gulped at the profanity as a huge aching void of sexual arousal yawned inside me.

"It's only my mouth," Mrs Hallam went on. Then her grin widened and she dropped an eyelid against one cheek in a conspiratorial wink. "And between my tits sometimes if I particularly like a chap. But shush, don't tell my husband."

Then she giggled like a girl, like she might have done back in 1950, before she was too mature to giggle.

Mrs Hallam even held her lower lip between her teeth and crinkled her nose at me. "I'd quite like to suck your cock," she said with a vixen look on her face.

"Fuck me," I said on a sigh of disbelief.

I hadn't meant it that way, but Mrs Hallam's eyes went round, eyebrows arched with faux incredulity. "You could at least offer to buy me a drink first, darling," she said.

A moment later, she tinkled a laugh.

"So, would you like me to give you a nice little suck? A little diversion to see us through the day?"

There was no way I was about to refuse. I was shocked, of course. I was stunned with the surprise of first finding the stash of cock-sucker photos, which doubled-up into shock by her outrageous offer of more of the same, and while I had some vague notion about being caught with my dick in her face, the rush of lust made me reckless enough to let her do it.

"What? Really? You mean it?" I said without knowing I was going to ask.

She held the photos up once more. "Really, Jason, what a ridiculous question..."


Mrs Hallam held my dick in her left hand. She had her fingers curled round the shaft, the big diamonds in her engagement and eternity rings flashing in the sunlight which streamed in through the skylight set in the angled ceiling above us. I looked at the rings, saw her wedding band glint, and wondered what her husband was doing right at that moment.

She looked at my cock with an expression which told me she was feeling the need just as much as me. It was a predatory, feral, hungry look, something which revealed how she really was, her true, sexual self, the inner personality behind the elegant veneer she used as a front. That look was what I'd sensed and what had made me so uncomfortable being around her. There was a darkness inside Mrs Hallam. Not anything evil or necessarily bad, just something carnal, almost illicit. She was a Cougar a couple of decades before the phrase came into use, A MILF long before the American Pie movie put that acronym out there.

When she looked up and saw me staring, Mrs Hallam winked and gave me her grin. "Dirty boy," she said before she set her focus back on my cock.

"I was just working," I said.

Mrs Hallam looked at me again. She was on her knees, a flattened cardboard box as a cushion against the hard wooden boards. She had her dress up to her thighs, one hand working my cock while she caressed her own breasts from outside the dress with the other.

"You were looking at pictures of me sucking men's' cocks," she said with a feral glint behind her eyes. "Probably going to have a wank as well I wouldn't be surprised."

"I didn't mean to look at them," I said with a gasp. It was difficult for me to reconcile the language she used to her composed and elegant style.

I was desperate to make her believe me. Despite what she was doing and her apparent enjoyment I couldn't shake the niggling feeling I would get into trouble. I was a product of the times. Young, naive, not a virgin - although my experiences to date couldn't compare to Mrs Hallam, the attic, and her photos - but I was still afraid of authority. Raised by the generation which came immediately after the Second World War, I knew breaking the rules had consequences.

"But you did. I saw you gawping," she said.

"I ... I couldn't help it. They ... You..."

"Blew your socks off almost, didn't they, Jason," she drawled.

"I can't believe it," I said.

"Oh, Jason, darling, you don't have a clue."

She said it with a low growl, jacking my cock as she looked into my face. Then, after a quick sigh which told me she was hot and bothered and horny, Mrs Hallam opened her mouth and took the dome between her pursed lips.

"Fuck," I grunted while she snuffled and gasped and sucked her cheeks concave.

I boggled. I couldn't quite believe it as I watched Mrs Hallam sucking my dick. It was amazing, like something out of Mayfair, a story someone made up for a mucky magazine. She went at it with her fingers down at my root, her hand working me down near my balls, the bulb in her mouth, glugging and glomming like she was making porn. During a lull, after licking the keel from my balls to the tip, her fist moving with fast, urgent strokes, Mrs Hallam smiled, eyes full of clandestine intent.

"You like me sucking your dick?" she asked.

"You're fucking gorgeous," I said. The heat was on me and I was crude with the compliments. "I think you're sexy."

"Thank you," Mrs Hallam replied. "It does me good to hear a young man say that. I was very pretty when I was younger. I turned a lot of heads in my twenties. But as I get older..."

Mrs Hallam swirled her tongue around the swollen cockhead, her stare set with mine while she teased and taunted with her eyes.

"You might be one of those ones who gets to come on my tits," she purred when she came off my dick. "For being so nice."

She said it and then went back to slurping my cock. She made the noises, wanking at me, her free hand sneaking into the dress.

"I wanna see your tits," I growled, crude and aggressive with need.

Mrs Hallam looked up and eyeballed me, my cock in her mouth. She held it between her lips and used her hands on her dress at the lapels. She peeled and shrugged and the dress fell looser at the middle as the belt slipped. I saw one tanned shoulder Mrs Hallam's upper arm when the dress slid down at that side. Then she shrugged again, my dick still caught between her pursed lips, her gaze locked with mine.

"Yeah," I said when the bodice was at the crooks of her arms.

"Boys and big tits," Mrs Hallam said. My dick waggled after she let it drop from her mouth, her tone close to mocking as she freed her arms from the dress. "Always been the same," she added while scooping one boob from her bra. "They're only tits," Mrs Hallam went on as she hefted the other one free.

Then she gave me the same old grin and shimmied, the action setting her big, round breasts to swinging.

"I don't know why you men go silly for them," she said as I gawked and took hold of my cock.

"Ah, fuck, they're fantastic," I gurgled while tugging myself.

Mrs Hallam did the girly giggle again. She pressed her arms against her breasts, compressing tit-flesh, nipples long, aroused teats, the flesh excited in the big circular saucers. I groaned and wanked my cock, hot for Mrs Hallam's big breasts. I couldn't explain why I felt like I did. I didn't know what it is that makes breasts so appealing to men, or at least what excites me, but there's just something in the way they jiggle and sway. It's in their contours and shape. They're all the same basic design but supremely crafted. For me, it's not just big tits that get me aroused. I love little boobs, too. In fact, at nineteen, I was just mad for women in general. At an age when it was all about hormones and heat, when it was all about sex, before I'd fully matured and refined my attitudes to be less chauvinistic, I looked at women and judged them on their aesthetic appeal.

And Mrs Hallam had it all going on. She had the looks, the demeanour, the boobs, and the legs.

"Yes, I know," Mrs Hallam replied. "If I had a pound for every time I've had that said to me," she said with a glance at her own spectacular frontage. "Well, I'd be a very rich woman."

Mrs Hallam looked up at me, teasing me with a deep cleavage and pimpled areolae as she crinkled her nose in what seemed to be one of her tricks.

"Gotten me into all kinds of trouble," she said as she made her boobs jiggle. "These big tits," she went on through a sigh and her smirk.

"I want to fuck you," I said as I worked hard at my dick.

"Mm, yes, I suppose you do," Mrs Hallam said with a pout. She gave me a pitying look. "You're not the first one to say it."

"So, lie down," I said. "Take that dress off."

Mrs Hallam gave me a mocking look. "Wouldn't it be easier if I took the dress off first?"

"I don't care. Please, just take it off."

She put a hand on my thigh and heaved up to her feet. "I'll take it off, but I'm not letting you fuck me."

Disappointment was a leaden sinker into the pit of my stomach when I heard her say it.

"Please," I groaned, my eyes on her swinging tits.

She let the dress fall. "No," she said. "I'm not supposed to fuck. That's not allowed."

I stared at her as she stepped out of the dress. Her boobs shivered and swung, cantilevered over her bra. She was soft and rounded, a mature lady, not a skinny young thing. Children and time had had an effect, but she still had a figure that was entirely, wonderfully feminine. I was nineteen and felt a surge of deep yearning to experience her body, a near overwhelming urge to tear her underwear off her and lay her down so I could plunge into her up to my balls. Desire bubbled, boiling in the indefinable place which is neither guts nor gonad.

It was instinct, a primordial urge, especially strong when Mrs Hallam used profanity. To hear her say 'fuck' was as shocking to me as seeing a nun smoking a cigarette. It was somehow entirely understandable but wrong at the same time.

"But I want to," I whined as Mrs Hallam paused, thumbs at the waist of her briefs.

Her underwear was surprisingly dainty. Of an age where I thought she might be wearing unflattering bloomers, Mrs Hallam's knickers were more gentle and soft. They were blue, with a panel over her vulva, the material packed full while the sides were lacy and pretty. Her panties were high cut at the tops of her legs, the waistband barely more than string around her hips.

When she paused she looked at me, reinforcing the original notion I'd had about her being the old-fashioned schoolmarm.

"If you don't behave," she said, "there'll be no more of this."

At which she shoved her underwear down over her thighs and revealed a completely bald vulva, the inner folds of her labia plainly visible where they peeped from the fleshy outer lips. Later, when Mrs Hallam first opened her legs to give me a full view of her intimate places, it shocked and thrilled me in equal measure to see those female folds were thick, meaty flaps, her clit something close to the size of the top joint of my pinkie finger. It was an incredible sight to behold the butterfly wings of Mrs Hallam's scarlet, glistening quim. It would be one of the most enduring moments in my memory, something which always put me in favour of a glorious, sexy older woman.

When she revealed herself, knickers at her knees, fists on her hips, expression belligerent but also showing a hint of self-doubt behind her eyes, I gasped because it was 1983 and it wasn't so common for a lady to shave off her thatch.

"I thought that would get your attention," Mrs Hallam said as she posed.

Which is when I moved in close, cranking my dick, the excitement of it too much as the surge began and spunk flicked from me in a thick, vehement rush.

Mrs Hallam yelped as the first squirt spattered against her skin. "Oh!" she cried, when the jizz landed on her hip.

As she said it, the second spurt hit her stomach, another two forceful spatters leaving gooey, glistening ropes. One on her ribs on the right side, another on her thigh.

"Jason! Oh bugger! You're coming," she added, as more of the stuff dripped onto the boards.

I gasped and moaned as the joy of it took me. I cranked at my length, mindless to the carnage while Mrs Hallam stared in slack-faced, wide-mouthed dismay.

"Uh, ah, fuck," I said, snorting the words.

I wanked until I had nothing left, groaning with pleasure until, while a snotty silver thread shivered and finally dripped from the end of my cock, coherent thoughts filtering through.

"I wasn't expecting that," I heard Mrs Hallam say on a half-chuckle. "Caught me by complete surprise," se went on. "I'm glad you didn't do that when I had you in my mouth. I'd have just about drowned."