I didn’t join the Swindon community centre to troll for pussy, after all, I was 64 and most of the women there were in their 80s and 90s. No, I joined for the art classes, as I always wanted to know how to paint. It was just good fortune that Hope Currier was in the class as well.

Hope was, at that time, 88 and, in her own way, still very attractive. OK her hair has got thinner, it’s once mousey colour now silvery grey, but she carries herself well, not stooped and dresses in accordance with her generation, maintaining strong touches of femininity and even a note of sexiness. For instance, she likes to wear kitten heeled shoes and they are often with a gold trim round the edge, a pattern now and then or two shades. Her shapely legs were always in hose of some sort, I never saw them bare outside the house. Her upper torso looks great if seen in silhouette through wispy, filmy blouses and tops. From the droop of her bra, her torso bulged out in a regular rounded dome but never to the point of looking over weight. Her upright demeanour exposes a trim arse even if it’s dropped an inch or two. Hope was also a very good artist already. She just didn’t have the encouragement by herself, therefore lack of confidence at her apartment in the Sunrise assisted care home. We became fast friends, finding we grew up in the same area in Wiltshire, the South West of England.

I learned that Hope could no longer drive and depended on a bus to get to class. I also a had free bus travel too, our ages qualifying us, but I usually drove, doing a spot of shopping on the way back or calling it my club for a pint and game of darts. I volunteered to pick her up and take her home after class. One morning when I went to pick her up, she was still getting dressed. Hope explained she was having trouble buttoning, all the way down the back, her pale beige blouse and could I complete it. That seemed easy but in starting I noticed her ancient, unstructured white brassiere was slightly askew. I informed Hope so she asked me to help her. I unhooked it and pulled it slightly away from her body – purposely to sneak a good view of Hope’s tits. She kind of laughed a little, she wasn’t daft.

“That’s naughty. It’s not nice to look at mummies boobies”. I didn’t know why then, but I got an immediate hard on. I finished dressing Hope and off we went. From that moment on, I looked at Hope as a potential sex partner, I just didn’t know how to pull it off.

Some weeks after that I noticed that when we talked about when we grew up (in very similar circumstances), Hope would hesitate when she would say ‘black man’ or ‘black woman’. It seemed awkward so I told Hope that when we were alone together - a safe zone, she could use any kind of word or phrase she wanted to. I then asked her directly to say what they called black people back in her day. She hemmed and hawed a bit.

“We called them ... niggers.” she murmured quietly It is a word that she was forbidden to say most of her adult life, and when she said it I could hear in her voice that it was something that she needed to say ... to be politically incorrect. I thought I saw my opening. I had established in all our chatting, that she was a rural vicar’s daughter and to add complications, black people were an eye boggling rarity to be seen in the rural Wiltshire villages where we’d enjoyed an idyllic infancy.

Nowadays blacks are everywhere in the industrial town of Swindon. I learned her deceased husband Arnold had been chief engineer at the Great Western Railway works that once was the major employer. Now the place, bypassed by the M4 motorway is large complexes of service industries, including the HQ of WHSmiths a major high street stationer, bookseller and newsagent and the car maker Honda. Hope’s career was as the old fashioned directors secretary – at GWR’s offices in the days when shorthand was the usual and typewriters of course.

Chatting about her past, on the way to the retirement home, she directed me to where Arnold and her home was, just as a drive by. It was impressive on a tree lined avenue. She pointed out the spacious home she and Arnold had lived in all their married life, one of a small estate built by GWR for their senior employees. I could tell industry in the place, so well built, sort of belt and braces.

“Hope”, I told her, “It’s alright to use the word when you’re with me. I know you don’t mean any harm by using it, but it is a part of your past and if you’re comfortable using that, or any other word, you can when we’re together.” It was the perfect opening for Hope. She talked about the niggers when she saw them in town. I had unleashed her forbidden language. She told me that it felt good to use the word, even though she didn’t hold any grudges toward niggers. She said that, since she could say whatever she wanted around me, that I could do the same. Nothing was out of bounds. I could see she was really enjoying this and the anticipation of what might come.

Her problem with dressing became more frequent and before long she was having me redo her bra whenever I came over (twice a week). I took the first opportunity to tell her;

“Mummy’s got nice tits,” I murmured, right behind her, not yet ready to close the bra. Hope looked over her shoulder as I cupped her tits in my hand and purred;

“Do you really think so? Do you really like holding mum’s tits?” I kissed her cheek and whispered;

“I love your tits, mum.” Now she knew what my taboo was. I rolled her nipples gently between my fingers and added; “I’ve always loved your tits, mummy.”