Cedar Hall
by Capt Stan
Copyright© 2026 by Capt Stan
Romance Sex Story: Hidden away in every city and town, countless thousands of old women and men live out their final years. Friendships form, and just occasionally, physical attraction strikes, just as it does everywhere else.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Oral Sex .
Here I am, shuffling along the corridor like some toy with a flat battery. I don’t want to shuffle, but Matron insists I lean on this stupid trolley; she thinks I’m too unsteady on my pins to go it alone. Cow. I loathe her with all my heart.
Just another morning at Cedar Hall Retirement Home, or as the residents affectionately call it, God’s Waiting Room. It’s not a bad life, with three men and twelve women in residence and an easy daily rhythm of life. I am bound for the lounge, our social hub, to enjoy a bit of company with the old dears. Ah, here it is, hard-a-starboard, and in I go.
Is she here? I look around and spot her straight away, my best friend, Wendy, her silver hair catching the sunlight, sitting in her usual place by the window, staring vacantly out at nothing in particular. She is the prettiest lady in the home, no contest. Her face, still elegant in its softness, is framed by a neat bob, and her ample bosoms haven’t gone unnoticed. I may be old, but I’m not dead.
I pause to one side and quietly offer my usual greeting, “Good morning, Wendy. Do you mind if I join you?”
She looks up at me and smiles. “Hello, George, please do.”
I settle into the armchair opposite and nod towards her outfit.
“Nice dress, Wendy.”
Off-white, with a scatter of blue flowers, it looks just right on her. And the neckline dips enough to show her décolletage off to perfection.
Between us, the little table holds a china teapot and two cups. I smile, asking her, “Shall I pour?”
The pot feels heavy in my hand and shakes a bit as I pour the tea into the two cups. Next, I add a dash of milk to both and slide one gently across to Wendy’s side. Silence ensues as we lift and take a sip of the hot, amber liquid. Time slows, just for a moment.
Most mornings our chats drift into the past, old television programmes, often decades old, featuring actors, comics, and presenters long deceased. Wendy usually leads the way. Sometimes I think she has spent her whole life in front of a telly. Or perhaps talking about departed family and friends is just too painful.
Wendy puts her cup down, a soft clink as it nestles in her saucer, then looks at me thoughtfully before starting to speak. “George, did you ever watch Life on Mars on the BBC? I think it was about twenty years ago.”
An odd one today, I think, before replying, “No, though I’ve heard of it. What was it about?”
“Well, there was this policeman in Manchester, and something happened, an accident, I think, and he ended up back in time. About thirty years.”
“That sounds a bit like Goodnight Sweetheart; he went back to the war and two-timed his wife. Oh, then what, Wendy?”
“He was still a copper, but before the Manchester forces were reorganised. I think it was set in Salford in 1973.”
And with those few words, my mind flies back in time to the docks as they were, the smell of cargo and the filthy black water of the canal.
“I was in Salford Dock in 1973; it was a grotty place then. Did you know Salford was the inspiration for Coronation Street?”
Her eyebrows rise, just a fraction, before she speaks. “Of course, George, everyone knows that.”
“Well, you don’t know about my little adventure in Salford.”
“I went ashore for a walk on a nice warm summer evening, and on the way back I popped into the pub just outside the dock gate. I was hot, sweaty, and parched. All I wanted was a nice pint.”
I pause, take another sip of tea, and then continue.
“It was packed with dockers, rough and tough labourers. The only empty seat was in one corner where two young women were sitting. So after buying my pint at the bar, I wandered over and asked if they minded me joining them.”
She looked at me pityingly. “Why do so many of your stories involve attractive women?”
“Not this time, Wendy. They were street tarts, plain as day – and looked the part.”
Another lift of her eyebrows signifies her disbelief. It is quite endearing, despite the obvious negative connotation towards my character.
“Well, Wendy, I was there,” I say, leaning back, “and they were quite the sight. Identical twins, dressed to match – the same skirts, tops, and peroxide hair. I looked at them over my glass as I downed my beer, and then a devilish idea struck me.”
I pause and wait to see if she responds, but she doesn’t bite, so I press on.
“They were giving me the once-over, too, and I took a risk. Anywhere else, I would have been beaten up and chucked out, but there, I was the outsider. That seemed to be a protective shield.”
“I asked them if they were on the game.”
Wendy’s eyes narrow, half amused, half alarmed. “Oh, Lord, George, what did they do?”
“They giggled and nodded. Then I asked their names, which were Bluebell and Cowbell. Obviously not their real ones, but good enough for the moment.”
She lets out a soft snort, somewhere between incredulity and amusement.
“I chatted to them for a few minutes, but it was a struggle as we had so little in common. After a while, Bluebell asked me if I fancied going with them.”
“My response? I asked, ‘How much?’”
Wendy’s jaw dropped. Her teacup hovered mid-air, forgotten. She seemed to be struggling to get words out, but eventually stuttered, “Did you?”
“Well, their price list wasn’t budget-friendly. Fifty quid for a short time, twenty for a blow job. I didn’t have enough on me for more than the bee-jay, so I agreed to that, handed over the cash, and we all left together.”
“Outside, they led me into a nearby alleyway, a metre wide, no lights, just the glow from the pub windows. I leaned against a brick wall; they went down on their knees and got to work.”
“It was very pleasant, the two of them taking turns, one licking, one sucking.”
Her teacup, still poised mid-air, shakes rapidly. “Oh, George, how could you?”
“Quite easily. I was young and randy. It was my first threesome, quite memorable just for that.”
I sense an opportunity and quietly say, “I reckon you could do a mean bee-jay, Wendy.”
She blushes beautifully and mumbles her reply, “It has been a long time, George. I might have lost the knack.”
Wendy lowers her cup to its saucer with quiet finality, then rises and offers me her hand. “Come along, George, we have business to attend to.”
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