“Mummy,” cried our grandson Joe, a little distressed, as we entered the ornate front door, pulling at Mike, my husband’s hand as he had done all the walk.

“She might be asleep pet,” I advised him, closing the horrid, thick mahogany, ornately carved door imported from Thailand, Mike’s idea! thinking that our daughter Faye and husband Nick would be catching up on sleep after their trans-atlantic flight.

Mike stupidly let go of the boundless energised four year old, who proceeded to noisily climb the stairs.

“For fucks sake Mike think about it, if they are asleep he’ll wake them,” I ballocked him trying to catch the lad, the darling of our retired elderly lives.

Mike is useless in many ways, seems to be in his own lost world since retiring from his international bank executive post fifteen years ago and relaxed too much, as far as Faye, Stuart our son and I are concerned. He is eighty-one and handsome in a mature, quiet way, still with a good spread of crisp white hair, very forgetful, his driving is crap, never seems to know the routes, so I do all the driving, careless in traffic and unused to the new, silver Lexus LS and it’s gadgets and as for DIY and tools – well forget it.

Good points? Enormous pension and investment portfolio, loves me madly, not bothered in the slightest about my weight fluctuation, currently heavy, low handicap golfer, very attentive, wine connoisseur and cricket addict. Of course for many years we have somebody in to do odd jobs, but in our early married days, forty odd years ago he was useless at DIY and called on ever willing Stuart to do things, before calling a specialist trade.

We had met at a party when he was mere branch manager, when they had them that is. I felt out of my depth but agreed to accompany my sister Donna who worked at Mike’s branch. I was impressed with his gentlemanly style and we dated, then got married having to save like buggery to afford our first house. It was my down-to-earth, sensible, straight forwardness he liked, apart from my then voluptuous body. Donna was the brains, I was the shag happy looker, which she wasn’t, being a frumpy, anorexic, mousy brown hair brain box born of a long distance truck driver and a drunk mother. Donna’s sense and my street wise attitude pulled us through. She joined the Army Pay Corp stationed near Winchester and we rarely met after that except for hatches, matches, despatches etc. I was a supermarket checkout girl.

At our voices and Joe’s call, Miriam our Portuguese maid bustled through from the kitchen, wiping her tiny, child like but strong wiry hands with a cloth. Her heavily lined, swarthy face was a picture of concern, thick black eyebrows deeply frowning, then reverted to her usual laughing countenance when she realized it was us, probably expecting us to enter our large country residence in the New Forest via the side entrance which everyone uses. Mike’s idea again telling me we never use his ghastly purchase. I had caught Joe and was returning down the curved stairs as she spoke.

“Why you come this way?” she asked, puzzledly pointing at the front door, almost as if we weren’t allowed.

“Oh Mr Mike’s idea,” I chuckled, using the term Miriam and Jose, her husband used when talking about him – and me – Mrs Lynne, gesturing at my husband who was fussing with his shoes.

He wandered through to the kitchen, Joe clung to my leg like a sailor hugging the mast in a storm, never happy when Miriam was around – we don’t know why. She followed and started to pour soft drinks for us all and handing them round. I asked Miriam where Jose was and she waved generally towards the twenty acres of garden which had access to the 140 odd acres of crown land, where I expected her grossly overweight husband to be. Joe scuttled off to his playroom across the hall, I had settled him. Mike sauntered through the conservatory to his study and I checked the larder and freezer for something to cook this evening – that being my love – cooking. The maid had been cleaning the utility room and continued after our surprise arrival at the – forbidden in her mind - front door.

“Lynne, quickly – here,” Mike whispered, furtively peering round the kitchen. “Miriam???”

He was beckoning me curling his forefinger to join him.

“She’s in the utility – busy,” I irritably replied, what was he anxious about as his beckoning was increased.

Mike pointed at a computer monitor on his busy but tidy desk.

On the 40” colour HD Sony screen, there was a view inside some shed or such and I could see a log pile, a ride-on grass cutter, some garden tools, a sack of something and the back of a man, his jeans down below his knees, his tight white arse, which contrasted with his tanned muscular torso and legs, shunting back and forth at the naked, white, ample rear end of a woman, skirt round her waist, knickers nowhere to be seen. Just about visible due to the angle, I could see the side view of an enormous pair of breasts swaying and crashing below her brown torso. I had a horrible feeling.

“They couldn’t wait to get home, that’s awful, look at them, like rabbits,” groaned Mike.

“But where are they?” I queried, not able to take my eyes off the fucking couple who were our daughter Faye and her man Nick.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Mike mumbled crossly, watching as closely as I was, but not trying to.

A wave of something swept through me and I shivered, but kept watching what was a formidably athletic shagging session in the meadow loose box at the moment devoid of any of our horses. To be peeping on our beloved little – not so little now – girl being solidly rammed, was distasteful but somehow extremely captivating and the same shiver coursed through me and I realized I was jealous. Faye has always been shag happy – like me, I was a confirmed slut at fourteen, her brain between her legs and could have been a real cum bucket. Like me, her tits had developed quickly, attracting a lot of boys at school and Mike paid to get her out of one scandal. Mike was a golfing partner with the magistrate who sorted out a deal with the diddycoy father of a burly sixteen year old who had got her in the pudding club. He claimed and was right that she looked eighteen. I had put her on the pill after that by arrangement with my doctor, who only wanted to see and feel my knockers, even though there was nothing wrong with me, in place of filling out a lot of official document. That was easy.

Mike and I found her, when she was sixteen, and a fairground employee, fucking - actually in the very loose box she was being seen to, this moment. The man was big and muscular and intimidated my husband, Faye cowering fearfully, simpering with me as I found her white thong amongst the hay we were due to feed the animals with. She got a right bollocking from both of us, cutting her substantial allowance for a week – that made her see sense for a short while.

Mike got her into the golf club along with Stuart when they were in their mid teens, but he lost interest soon, however she became a medium handicapper. I know she had a dalliance with the married pro who was giving her lessons. Then she met and married Nick and settled down, running the equine business, helping him with the academy, then Joe came along.

Now I was envious of what she was receiving in the woodshed.

“I wish I hadn’t left this on,” muttered Mike, tapping at the keyboard and the scene became one of eighteen smaller images of key areas on our estate. “It was just for Jose and Miriam to keep an eye on the place when we’re not here, like the last four weeks.”

“By the way can you see Jose anywhere?”

My husband shook his head asking why. I told him I might want him for a job before the staff have their annual holiday.

What we didn’t see and therefore know, was that our faithful, hard working, loyal Portuguese handyman and gardener was crouched behind the wood pile peeping at the action in the loose box.

Mike and I had been with the whole family in Miami, at our expense and we brought Joe back to UK with us to let his mum and dad have a break, Stuart and Kay travelling with us ... The CCTV system was a protection against a current wave of burglaries in the area from big houses, mainly garages, gardens and sheds.

“But why cameras in the shed Mike?” I asked.

“That bloody mower was over fifteen hundred quid that’s why,” he responded angrily switching the screen off, unlike him, but he was probably as rattled I was having seen the shag session.

The kids, I still call them that, came in later and we didn’t say anything. Faye picked a couple of loose hairs and a stray piece of straw from her gaberdine slacks. Nick just grinned. They were very cheery – I wonder why - grateful for the free holiday and peaceful extension, happily stayed the night and went back to their own place and the episode was forgotten.

Faye and Nick, live in the same area and phoned us to say they were home and everything was fine. Stu and Kay live near Manchester. Nick is so handy with DIY and Mike dotes on him as much as he did Stuart when he lived at home. Faye and Nick are a great help, partly because of her shared interest with me in the horses, the DIY livery and riding school, and Nick’s well thought of golfing academy, which Mike funded. We’d kept to ourselves many years, reading, entertaining which I love to do, Mike not so, watching TV, dining out and that’s about it. Not much talking, after we had kids. Not much cuddling, either.

Some time back, I started to feel like I was just letting life slide away. I wanted to do something, but what? I mean we were very very well off and not just through Mike’s hard work, finance contacts and skills, but I had formed my own company exploiting an idea I had - the simple ones nobody else thinks about are the best – designing bikinis that held their place on any female body without sliding and exposing the so-called private bits. The fact that I had researched manufacturers and suppliers world wide and happened on a local company down the road, so to speak, in Dorset, that could make my unique neoprene garments, had made me a millionaire and the company was known internationally, with super stars and many well known slebs as I call them wearing my gear.

I packed in working, keeping and enjoying all the benefits of being the sole owner and still enjoy the fruits I worked for but age has taken it’s toll. I am fit, walk miles each day with our dogs, work out in the home gum when Mike is at home, he thinks I’m working out each day – silly old sod ... He is unknowingly behind my quest for something new – SEX. New! – that’s a laugh at 75-years-old. I don’t get rogered any more, not even a playful tweak of my always erect nipples, he seems to have lost his mojo and that must have been about ten years ago.

I can enjoy my body, beside the ravages of being in my seventies. My jowls are drooping, my expensively creamed and lotioned skin can’t prevent the myriad of wrinkles round my eyes and mouth. I refuse surgical help. Hair, if I didn’t control it can be seen fuzzily on my cheeks, sprouting out of my ears and down my nose and even a couple near my stout nipples which are permanently alert like organ stops. They are set in three inch wide, smooth, slightly darker areolae. Parchment like, probably sun damaged skin, high on my chest resembles a spiders web, especially when I fold my arms. A tummy bulge has developed into a saggy roll above my navel, which is hidden in a deep recess. A further bulge-into-roll lower down will no doubt sag to near concealing my crotch and the pleasure zone within.

I have a very different fanny to many women. Still the same aperture, obviously in the usual place with lips that elongate to mate with the knuckles around my sphincter. Mike used to love those, in fact I think he will still have the photo he took. However high at the tip of my gash I have what looks like a cock, is more sensitive than a cock and it can be charging my sex non stop if I don’t control it.

I was born with an enlarged clitoris. It hangs out really low for instance if I sit on the toilet it hangs out past my labia over an inch, surrounded in it’s hood which is the same skin as labia. It looks a bit like orange peel in texture and while looking firm it is very fragile and flips open as soon as the force of my piss shoves it apart. My doctor who has examined it many times – wonder why, he’s a man, suggested a clitoropexy, or hoodectomy to reduce it’s size, if I was desperate, but it is one hell of a buzz and having taught myself to manage the permanent feeling of orgasms – which is good in a cock lover like me. It has never caused me any discomfort, and if I wear close fitting, thin, shorts or swimwear. I do tend to wear thicker knickers or sanitary pads to shield it from unnecessary arousal, and to prevent it being too obvious as the mass of enlarged labia, plus my cock like clit can look odd. But love it being there and available, so did Mike did Mike who called it a beef curtain. He could get quite creative about it saying my labia are the doors to paradise, and my clit is the locus of ecstasy.

By myself, in our vast bedroom, with his and hers bathrooms, my decision, his farts and shits are no-go afterwards areas and I know so are mine. Undressing, walking around the room, curtains always open to the landscape, makes me feel naughty and free! But I wanted a male hand to touch me, finding only brief solace in frigging myself, bringing myself to a sexual climax. I’d never been much of a masturbator, for fucks sake I could get horny and cum at any time with my undercarriage, but I became a regular one since a certain Mr Mojo disappeared. I discussed it with Mike, but he seemed embarrassed to talk about it – he always retreated into his shell when awkward stuff became a talking point. I did try to arouse him with sexy, expensive or cheap undies, hanging jewels from my very prominent labia, playing with his flaccid cock – which was a sterling performer once upon a time, sometimes we tried swinging, which was fun, enjoyable and satisfying which he found too. I know, and he confessed to having two mistresses, actually introducing me to them, not that I knew what they were in that sense – and pretty fine looking executive employees too. I tried to get him to fantasize about them, as if I were one of them but zilch. What could I do?

I bought sex toys, tried online stuff with pervs and extreme porn – yes I could get off but I wanted the real thing. Deciding it was dangerous to piss on my own doorstep, the scandal would be unbearable taking a toy boy and the inherent risks, I even thought about in house help, but Jose was not attractive in many ways. I even thought about a female sex partner – again in house, but Miriam? - no, like Mike, I like meat on the bone.

There were some annoying flickers in two bulbs in the wall lights in the foyer. The main hall was double height with the staircase curling gracefully round, all focussed on a magnificent chandelier, augmented by a series of wall lamps. I thought Jose could do them for me but I know he hated doing fiddly little jobs especially in their house, Mike and I think it is to escape the beady eye of his wife. Mike had asked Nick if he could pop in next week to meet a golf equipment sales rep and an evil plan started to form. I called Faye, a tremble in my speech, I was so nervous speaking to her to help me hatch my plan and said it might be useful if he had time, if I asked if Nick while here to help me with the bulbs as the staff were away in Lisbon, Mike funding their trip. She was happy and was already writing in their diary.

“Oh thanks Nick, I’m so pleased you had time,” I said warmly, pouring him an Espresso, while Mike ushered the fussy sales rep out. “I need a tall man with long arms to help with some bulbs on the stairs.”

“Is that all Mum, couldn’t you ask Mi ... ah ok” grinned Nick, seeing my look of despair, knowing my husband’s aversion to stuff like that. I gave his hand a good squeeze passing the sugar.

I leaned against the worktop, clutching my pint of cold water, my favoured day time beverage – good for you - and crossed my bare tanned legs. I had planned my clothes purposely and wore a washed, knee length denim skirt, flipflops, a pale yellow, loose, tee-shirt, worn outside the skirt belt, which emphasised my big boobs, my grey hair up in a tight bun with a pale yellow band holding it in place. My Miami brand, toned, chubby legs are shapely not fatty, firm, with what Mike calls cute dimples round the knee bone, there is muscle definition and my toe nails were painted sky blue. The seedy golf man had slyly eyed me up with a lick of his lips.

We chatted about getting home, the golf business, Miami, Joe’s calmness on the flight and other stuff. I moved slowly round the Smallbone of Devizes bespoke kitchen, on edge, excited, kissing Mike goodbye after he shook hands with Nick and then left for a meeting which would drift into dinner at a hotel in Beaulieu.

I knew Nick watched me and I beckoned to him still with my glass of water. He followed me across the hall to the lower stairs, where I planned to start. He remained on the ground floor while I stepped up three.

“So which ones Lynne?”asked Nick. “There’s two you say”

“Just those” I answered, pointing to the rogue lamps. I made sure my pointing was expansive enough to raise the hem of my tee-shirt and let him see the big cups of my white M&S brassiere. “They’re just too high for me to reach,” I sighed, raising one leg to the next step, knowing my thigh would be exposed maybe up to my black high cut and brand new panties. “And I don’t like going up on step-adders, not on the stairs.”

“Hmmm! Yeeees ... No worries, got the bulbs?” asked Nick, having glanced where I wanted his eyes and gulping.

“Dammit, should have brought them out – on the kitchen table, be a darling...” I replied directing Nick with a glance. He went to the kitchen and I drafted the next stage of my naughty plan. I shifted my feet to the lower step, purposely dropped my glass of water and cursed, timed to suit his return to the bottom step.

“Oh gawd ... but it’s only water,” I burbled apologetically, bending to retrieve the glass and exposing all of my legs and knickers – to my son-in-law – he must have seen plenty at 50 year old...

Nick dashed to the kitchen and back for a cloth, I remained bending and he stepped up to join me and proceeded to mop the innocuous liquid – breathing heavily and not from the easy mop up.

Without further incident or manoeuvring on my behalf the job was done and he made to leave turning towards the kitchen door, preparing to go.

“I must be able to thank you darling,” I breathed, stepping close, in what I imagined was a seductory manner.

“Well, you can thank me when we come for dinner on Friday,” he mumbled, giving my upper arm a little rub. “Let me know if they flicker.”

“Oh that’s organized, you know me, I love entertaining,” I said, grasping his hand – it was very sweaty. “You have helped me so much Nick...” squeezing his hand and then up his forearm.