Helena and I married young. We started dating at eighteen, married at twenty-one and divorced at twenty-three when I discovered she'd been shagging a bloke at work.

An acrimonious divorce followed, which cost me more financially than it should and far more in my trust of women.

Consequentially, at twenty-eight, I was still single. I'd finally bought my own home, but I was convinced I'd never share it with a woman. I wasn't going to taken again. Dating was fine, and frequent, but I formed no long term attachments.

So it was a surprise on a Friday night when the phone rang. Just as I was sitting down to am episode of my favourite crime drama. I looked at the screen, an 07 mobile number, but not one I or my phone recognised. I pressed the green icon.

“Hello?”

“Steve?” There was a pause. “It's me.”

The voice was familiar, but I couldn't place it.

“Me who?”

“Helena.”

A long pause followed. What the hell did she want? What did I want with her?

“What do you want?”

“Can you come and see me, please? Steve? I really need you.”

“What on earth for? Why?” And why would I want anything to do with you, bitch. Slag-bitch.

“Please?” The voice tagged at my heart strings and unresolved urges trampled a path through my reason.

“Why?”

“Please come, I'll explain when you get here. Please? I need you?”

Well, never say I'd ignore a damsel in distress and Helena always could wrap me around her little finger, but even so, I'd learnt a damaging lesson the very hard way.

“What's the address?”

That was it, I'd given in. I got up and looked for my car keys. Then lifted an armpit and sniffed. Hmm, shower first. And a shave, all of me, and a proper good scrub and then a scouring of my teeth.

Naked, I stood in the bedroom deciding what to wear. It had to be a scam, some twisted way to get at me, but hell, I could make her realise what she was missing. I always did look better than that toerag she ran off with, I thought, as I put on tiny briefs, that only just covered my cock and balls, and gave way at the two press-studs. Especially if the former started showing any interest in the local talent. Then tight jeans, a decent T-shirt and go.

The address she'd given me was a dark, morose inner-city street of narrow terrace houses. I parked as close as I could find a gap in the on-street parking and walked back, peering at front doors until I found the number she had given me. I knocked, and a light came on inside, lighting up the window above the door. It opened.

“Come in, Steve,” she said, opening the door, hurrying me inside and closing the door behind me. “Come through,” she added, leading the way to the back room.

Now I was inside I could see that the front room was in darkness, the light was coming from the doorway which lead to the back sitting room. Following her through, I could see that she didn't seem to have changed much. Still about shoulder height to my six-foot in stockinged feet, as she was, narrow waist and slim hips. Her hair had changed, still the same mousey brown with a slight wave, but cut shorter. No longer shoulder-length, now it was cut in a neat bob.

“What's this about, Helena?” I asked, wanting to get straight to whatever the point of my visit was.

“Sit down, Steve,” she said, sitting down in the middle of a three-piece suite. I cast about for an armchair. “No, here, next to me.” She smiled up at me and placed her hand on the sofa cushion beside her. Now I turned and looked down at her.

“Bloody heck,” I cursed under my breath. “Where did you get them from?”

She pushed her chest out, emphasising the size of her breasts.

“Same as they always were. I've just got a decent bra on.”

“Bloody hell, you never wore a bra when you were with me.” I sat down. “You always said you'd been given flat, saggy boobs, wearing a bra was false advertising.”

“Neville likes me to show off what I've got.”

“Good for Neville. Where is the fatuous twat, by the way.”

“Gone to Holland for a football match with his mates. He won't be back until Sunday night.”

It didn't go unmissed that she'd told me where he was, that he wasn't going to reappear in short order, and that she hadn't challenged my insult of him.

“So, why am I here. Why, and how exactly do you need me.”

“I need you, Steve,” she replied, putting an emphasis on the word 'need'.

“How, exactly.”

“Need, Steve.” Again that word.

“Ey, so you said. How?”

She reached out and took hold of my hand. I resisted as she tried to lift it, but relented as she tugged at my wrist and allowed her to guide it to rest on her upper leg.

“Ha, very likely,” I said, snatching my hand back and standing up. A press-stud snapped open noisily, and she stared at my obvious erection, now presented to her at eye-level. I saw victory in her eyes as she stood up too.

Never breaking eye contact, she unhooked her skirt and let it fall to the floor. My eyes tracked it all the way down, taking in the black stockings and suspender straps holding them up.

“Hell, Hels? You pissed, or something?”

Her arms lifted her T-shirt up and over her head, revealing an underwired, padded, push-up bar with far more boob on show than I ever remembered her having.

She put a finger to her lips. “Ssh.” Slowly she sank to her knees, her fingers gripping my jeans and tugging expertly so that the button gave way and the zip pulled downwards. Another tug and my jeans were around my knees and my cock was pushing out and past my posing pouch briefs, which were only just hanging on by hope and one reluctant popper.

“Oh, just as I remembered, but shaven. It makes it look even bigger. Steve!”

Before I could stop her, or even think of doing so, her mouth opened, and she took a good part of my cock in, sealing her lips to the shaft and sucking. Her hand then pulled the cotton of my briefs from me and took a hold of my buttocks.

I had dreamed of her like this for years. Not in a push-up bra, not with black stockings and suspenders, she was in jeans, T-shirt or naked when she was with me. But on her knees and sucking, not that she ever did, not voluntarily, not without a lot of cajoling and promised rewards having been extracted. That had been our whole relationship, bargaining, and extraction. And I'd always come off worse, normally financially.

Oral sex had been rare and she never finished the job. I pulled my T-shift up and over my head. She looked up, and her hands reached to slide up over my smooth skin.

“Ooh, your chest hair has gone too. You're so smooth now. Sit down, darling.”

She pushed me gently, and I fell back onto the sofa, watching amazed as she untied my shoes and pulled them and my socks off. With a look of triumph, she caught hold of my trouser legs and pulled my jeans from me, tossing them carelessly behind her.

“Oh yes! You're shaven all over! When did you start doing that? Good grief, it's sexy. And what do you think of me in black lace and a decent bra?”

I was aghast. It was one thing to have washed and shaved and travelled hopefully, dreaming if perhaps reliving an episode from our youth. But this was a different Helena. Not the Helena that I'd married. One that gave in and had sex only once she'd secured some sort of recompense or concession. This was a woman who wanted sex and wanted it under her own terms. It also seemed that she was a woman who had a rather more developed sexual appetite than she'd had as a teenager.

“You're wonderful,” I finally gasped. “Have you had something done?”

“What do you mean?” Her brow furrowed.

“Your tits, they look much bigger.”

“Oh, you mean, have I had implants. No, it's just me. I've put on a bit of weight, and it's gone there and on my arse. But they are the same saggy hangers that I've always had. Want a look?”

She rocked back, leaning away from me as she reached behind her and undid her bra. Then, holding her forearm across her bosom as she pushed the straps from her shoulders, she slipped each arm out of the straps whilst maintaining the cups held to her chest.

“Ready?” she asked.

For an instant I thought I could see doubt in her eyes, then she lowered her arm, dropping the bra and revealing her breasts.

They were just as I remembered them in my dreams, night, and day. All my memories were of them as they were now; long and pendulous, with thick dark nipples surrounded by darker areolae. But her nipples were hard and erect, point straight forward at me.

“Wow,” I gasped. “Some things only get better with age.”

“Really, Steve, do you mean that?”

“Of course! I never lied to you about things like that?”

“Neville says they are horrible, and they are to be in a bra at all times.”

“Neville's a twat.”

Helena pushed in between my legs, pressed my cock between her breasts and began to lift them up and down, wanking me off into her cleavage.

“Cum on them then?” she whispered, “or do you want me to suck you off first?”

“You offering?” I asked, shocked and pleasantly amazed at the change in her.

Without replying, she changed to fellating me, her hands pulling mine into her breasts.

“Oh good lord, Hels, you're going to make me cum!”

I thought she'd stop, get her mouth as far away from my cock and possible. If I was lucky, she'd finish me with a handjob, making sure none of the spunk touched her, but instead, she shifted up a gear, her head bobbing wildly up and down as her mouth worked her magic on me. It was no good, I couldn't resist any longer. Not that I'd been putting up anything of a fight. I dropped her boobs, grasped the back of her head and pushed her down into my groin. As my cock pushed into her mouth and I felt my taut purple dome touch the back of her throat, I came.

The continuing story is now available on:

Inkitt: https://www.inkitt.com/stories/erotica/1356702
Ream: https://reamstories.com/david_timmsdale_erotica