Blackmailed By Brenda

Sex isn't always fun when Philip is blackmailed by older woman

Introduction.

6 years have passed since the events in "Like Mother Like Daughter," ch. 01 to 03 took place. I was now 25, living away from home, working wherever I could. This story is about one episode that I wish I could forget, as you will see. Names and specific places have been changed, for obvious reasons. There is a lot of introductory, but that's how it was.

*

For two months now I had been working as a stock clerk for a building contractors in Warwickshire. The work was reasonably well-paid, I learned about building materials, keeping records and making sure we never ran short of essentials. The workmen were friendly enough, always ready to drink a mug of tea with me, and regale me with lurid stories of their illicit sex lives, some of which were almost believable!

The boss, Ralph Berne, a mild-mannered little man with a line of fuzz on his upper lip which he fondly called a moustache, often called me his "right-hand man" and was content to allow me to make decisions which really should have been his. The office girls weren't bad looking and often flirted casually with me. All was well with my world.

Until the day I met Brenda!

She was the switchboard operator, had her own little office and very few personal visitors. Not just because of her job, but mainly because no-one wanted to go in, whether she was there or not. I had often seen her across the yard, but had been warned by most folk to avoid her whenever I could. If I asked about this, all anyone would say was that I'd know if ever I had to go in there!

She was somewhere in her late thirties, about 5 foot 6 tall, medium build, except for her arse and tits, each of which were prominent to say the least. As they say, nice tits, shame about the face! She would ride to work each day on her Norton Commando and park it next to my smaller 250cc Honda. If she was parking up next to me she would look over at my bike and snigger. Damn, no wonder folk detested her.

The dreaded day came one frosty November morning. My boss came into the stores office looking a bit unhappy. He had a sheet of paper in his hand and stood in front of my desk.

"Look, Philip," he began, hesitantly, " I hate to ask you this, but my phone is acting up. Go over to switchboard and ask Brenda what's the problem. Also ask her to phone this message through."

Not my job to ask the boss why he didn't go himself, but I remembered all the dire warnings I had received about Brenda. Looked like even the boss didn't like going in there. What could be the reason even he was so unwilling to go there. I put on my most ingratiating smile.

"Of course, Chief," I answered, but the smile on my face was a false one.

He almost ran out of the stores, leaving me to put on my leather jacket. I picked up the sheet of paper, left the stores and began to walk across the yard. I passed a friend of mine who asked where I was going.

"Got to see Brenda for the boss," I told him, noticing the half-concerned, half-amused look on his face.

I knocked on the door of the switchboard office, opened the door and went in. Hell, it was hot in there, the heat was full on, even in that small office, but what really got me was the god-awful smell! The window was tight shut, and if you can imagine being in a hothouse where a pack of skunks had been partying, you'll get some idea!

I did know that some unfortunate women have odour problems, especially at period times, but this went far beyond that. Combined with that particular scent there was a serious case of the great unwashed. Hygiene was definitely not one of Brenda's weaknesses. The stifling heat didn't help any! Brenda evidently didn't notice any of this.

She looked round as I entered. Her lank, black hair draped halfway down her back, and, like the head it belonged to, hadn't seen shampoo for many a year. As she observed my unwilling entry her craggy face broke into what she fondly imagined was a welcoming smile. More like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood!

Trying to say as little as possible to conserve the memory of the fresh air from outside, I mumbled my message and handed her the sheet of paper. She took it from me with a hand that, like the rest of her, had seen better days. Dried engine oil under each finger nail and ingrained into the rough skin didn't improve her appearance. I expect you get the picture by now. At least I now knew why she had so few visitors. Little did I know this was only the surface of her ill repute!

"Don't go just yet," she said, "there might be an answer for Ralph."

Unwilling to stay, yet she did speak the truth, so reluctantly I remained, but backed as unobtrusively as possible to the door. She flicked a few switches, then spoke into the mouthpiece on the switchboard, which looked as if it had been installed about the time of Al Capone. Surprisingly, her voice was low, melodious, and, if you could shut your eyes and nose, would have been described as seductive.

"No answer just yet," she told me, "I'll phone across when the answer comes."

I opened the door and was halfway out when she spoke again.

"I like your bike," she remarked, "even if it is only a 250."

"It's quick, faster than the British iron," I answered.

As this is not a biker story, as such, suffice it to say that once on my 2nd favourite topic I found myself disregarding any unpleasantness and engaging on a warm discussion on the merits of our respective motorcycles. It must have been a good 15 minutes when I recalled myself to duty and again made for the door.

"We must have a ride one day," Brenda suggested, "then we'll see if you are as fast as you say."

There was an odd glint in her eyes as she said that, but I didn't note it at the time.

"Good idea," I responded, "I'll let you know."

Once outside, the clear, fresh chill of the air made me gasp for a second as I made my way back to the boss's office. Was that a look of relief on Ralph's face as I gave him the message? At all events, I had survived meeting the terrible Brenda.

Over the next three or four weeks I found it impossible to avoid Brenda. True, I never needed to enter the switchboard room again, but every time I parked my bike in the morning, and again at lunchtime and home time, Brenda was always there before me. In the fresh air, and with her biker gear on, she was almost acceptable.

"So, when are we having that little ride?" she asked one day.

I had forgotten that part of the conversation, but she apparently had not.

"Well, it's nearly Christmas," I replied," and I've lots to do, and going home for the holidays, so perhaps sometime in the New Year."

"I'll hold you to that," was her response.

Christmas came and went, plenty of time with my widowed mother, and more time with my then girlfriend, Suzanne, at parties, usually ending with me staying the night with her. After three months without her, my sex drive was at its peak, so as they say, a good time was had by all! Suzanne was two years younger than me, about 5 foot 3, fair hair in the Dusty Springfield style (Google it to see what I mean), and with a medium, curvy, but not too oversized, figure.

I ended my Christmas break by proposing to Suzanne, she accepted, and both families were very happy. So, I wasn't overjoyed at having to go back to work, which was a good 150 miles from home. But, money talks, and it was saying "Wedding" so I really had no option. There had been no snow that winter, so the ride back to Warwickshire was exhilarating, and I did the trip in under 2 hours. Not bad, as at that time motorways were comparatively novel.

As I parked the bike in its usual place, there was Brenda, waiting for me.

"Good holiday?" she asked, in what passed as a friendly manner with her.

"Certainly was," I responded.

As no-one else was there yet. I had no option but to continue chatting. Naturally, I also told her about my engagement, and plans for the future. Well, it was fresh in my mind, and better to talk than just stand there like a stuffed turkey. She seemed genuinely interested, and I probably said more than I intended. Perhaps she wasn't so bad, despite her aversion to soap and water!

A few days later, my phone rang in the office. To my surprise, it was Brenda. She really has a smooth voice I thought to myself.

"How about that ride you promised me?" she asked. "This weekend should be a good time."

I really hadn't thought about that, but obviously she had. Well, what the hell, it was only a motorcycle competition. I wasn't going to want it to go any further than that, even if she had been the slightest bit attractive. Not with my sexy Suzanne waiting for me!

"OK," I agreed, "make it Sunday morning."

"I've a friend who wants to come, is that OK with you?"

"Why not. The more the merrier. What's your friend called?"

She actually HAD a friend?

"Leslie."

"OK, fine. I'll see you both Sunday."

At that time, I was living in a rented caravan on a caravan park nearby (or trailer, for American readers). That Sunday, I got out of bed about 8 am, put on a bathrobe and made myself a pot of tea. The bed was still rumpled as I usually tidied up after breakfast. I was rather surprised to hear the "thump, thump, thump" of the engine of a British motorbike outside. Hell, she was early! A fist knocked on the door as the engine note died.

Brenda was there, in full biker gear, with another woman, about the same age. There the similarity ended. While Brenda was, as I've said, extremely full-bodied, her friend made a matchstick look fat. Neither were wearing crash helmets, well, I didn't myself as the new law wasn't due until later in the year. Leslie's hair was as long, and as ragged as Brenda's, and showed signs of overmuch peroxide. I opened the door and invited them in.

"Tea, anyone?" I asked.

"Good idea," responded Leslie. "While the kettle boils, would you have a quick look at the bike. It seems to be missing a beat now and then."

"OK," I said, "just let me get my trousers and a coat."

Hell, it was cold out there after the warmth of the caravan. I Looked around, but could see nothing obvious. I wasn't more than five minutes out there, and glad to get back into the warmth. Brenda had taken off her jacket and boots, and was sitting on the bed, her friend at the table at the opposite end, but other than that, all seemed as before. I drank my welcome hot cup of tea.

"Give me a couple of minutes," I said, "then we'll go."

The ride took us round the country lanes, and to give her due credit, she certainly could ride. I actually enjoyed myself; well, biking on a frosty day is exhilarating. We said goodbye, and I thought no more of it.

Two days later, my phone rang. Brenda's inappropriately sultry voice came over the line.

"I think you'd better come over," she purred, "there's something you really need to see."

I tried to put her off, but her voice became sweeter and sweeter. In the end, to get on with my work, I crossed over and entered that stuffy stinkhole of an office. She looked up and smiled that crooked smile.

"Nice little caravan you've got," she remarked, "I bet you've sent photos of it to your fiancée."

I wondered what that had to do with her summons, but readily agreed.

"Now there's a coincidence," Brenda coo'd, "Here's some others that Leslie took when we were there."

Puzzled, I took the photos. I looked at the photos and my blood ran cold. The first showed Brenda, in my bed, sitting up with nothing to cover her fleshy tits. In another one, she was sitting on the side of the bed, pulling her panties on. It was obvious she never shaved there, as the lower part of her belly was covered in coarse, black hair, which thickened as it disappeared under her fanny. There were more, all with Brenda in various states of undress, all taken on my bed, but far enough away to make it obvious where she was.

"What the fuck is all that about?" I asked.

"What do you think your sweet little fiancée will think of these? Aren't they artistic?"

My brain froze for a few seconds, then I tore the photos into pieces. Brenda laughed, an evil, sickening laugh.

"Got plenty of copies, sweetheart,." she cackled, "and if you don't want me to send them to your little girlie, you'd better come round to my place tonight."

"No way," I managed to get out, "no, fucking way!"

"Suit yourself," she laughed, "but just think about it. Here's my address. See you at eight o'clock, I expect."

I backed out of that office with my feelings in wild confusion. Why had she done this? What had I ever done to get her so mad? How I managed to get through the day I'll never know but by the time it was the end of the day, I had made up my mind. I wasn't rich, so she couldn't expect money. So what was it all for? Only one way to find out. I couldn't risk my Suzanne seeing those photos. Living so far from home, even she might have doubts about me.

It was already dark as I arrived at the run-down block of flats, which were intimidating by the state of them. I walked through the broken, glassless security door, stepping across litter and god knows what else. That old pile of newspapers in the corner moved as I approached, which startled me until I realised a hobo had taken residence there. Fortunately, the door I needed was only two flights of steps up.

The door opened, and there was Brenda. Wearing only a bra and panties, you may think it was an erotic sight, but old-fashioned, grubby wired bras and slack, equally grimy panties are not to my taste. There was an odd look on her coarse features which I could not fathom. She stepped back and let me into the room.

"Let's have a little drink, shall we?" Brenda almost coo'd.

"OK," I replied.

While she went to the fridge to get a beer, I looked round the dingy room. An old TV, a well worn sofa, a table that looked like a converted workbench, and a pair of battered chairs. It was the kind of room that fitted Brenda. Having taken off my jacket, I sank into the sagging sofa. Brenda came back into the room with a glass of beer in each hand. Handing me a glass she gave that crooked smile, which boded no good to my way of thinking. I opened my mouth to find out why all this charade, but Brenda stopped me.

"You've made a fool of me," she almost hissed, "I thought we might make a go of things, even told Leslie, who laughed herself sick, and then you told me you were engaged to some poncy kid back home. But I will have you, whenever I want. And you better get used to that!"

Fucking Hell! I'm nobody's idea of handsome, but this neglected female had persuaded herself I was serious about her! All because I like talking about motorbikes! But for those lying photos I would have got the hell out of there, but worrying about my future held me there.

"Now then, get out of those clothes, and lie on that table," she ordered.

The last thing I wanted to do, but could see no option. Lying naked on the table, the last thing on my mind was sex, certainly not with her, and my dick was totally unresponsive at the thought.

"Oh dear," Brenda sneeringly remarked, "we really must do something about that."

She had taken off her bra, and those melon sized tits stood out and wobbled obscenely as she sidled down the table until she was level with my crotch. She leaned over and let those fleshy mounds squash heavily on my dick.. She twisted her upper body slightly from side to side, covering my dick, my thighs and my belly.

I was a young and healthy male, and even in those circumstances, nature started to take its course. The more Brenda squirmed ands squashed, the harder my dick tried to escape into an upright position. As she felt my unwilling response, Brenda lifted herself off and as my dick rose, she dropped her face towards my groin, opened her mouth , pushed her lips all the way to the base of my shaft, and began to suck as strongly as possible, making obscene, bubbling noises as she did so.

I really didn't want to respond, but as her ministrations got to work I felt the tip of my dick starting to tingle. My back was aching from the rough table, but that melted into the background as my climax spilled my cream down her throat. She gagged a bit, then swallowed it all. As my spasm subsided, Brenda lifted her face away from me, looked at my reddened face and giggled. A totally weird sound, coming from that prematurely ageing face.

"That's a good start, my lover," she said, now for the main course."

Moving a little way fro the table, she hooked her thumbs down the sides of her panties, and dragged them down those flabby thighs. From memory of the photos I could see the mass of thick, black pubic hair, but in full size it seemed even thicker. She grunted as she climbed onto the table, straddled my thighs and grabbed my dick with one roughened hand.

She was well aroused by now, and the slightly drooping lips of her fanny started to cover my shaft. I don't even want to think what weapons she'd been using on herself, probably with the help of her friend, Leslie, but it had done nothing for tightness. In no time at all she was sitting full on my thighs but at an angle that threatened to tear my dick off! I managed to slither down a bit, and she got to work.

Sweat poured off us both, as she rocked back and forward, for what seemed like hours, until I felt a familiar, if slightly disappointing, grip on the base of my shaft.

"Aaaaargh, fuck, fuck FUCK," she screeched as her orgasm came.

Which was more than I experienced! As she collapsed on top of me, all her weight slammed my aching back onto the table top. I was only about halfway to cum myself, but really couldn't care less! All I wanted was to get that heavy mass of flesh off me, get away from the obnoxious stink which was all over me, and swill myself clean in a nice, clean hot shower.. But she wasn't done yet!

"You didn't cum that time. did you?" she accused, "You don't get away till I feel your cum splash out."

I didn't answer, but wondered what else she had in mind.

"No, no, NO FUCKING WAY!" I yelled, as the meaning of her movements struck me.

She had twisted round, grabbed her arse cheeks to separate them, and was about to ram herself back on me. Using her arsehole! I grasped the edges of the table and forced myself into a sitting position, .pulling my dick away from that uninviting entrance. I pushed against her sweat-slippery back and she slipped sideways and rolled off the table, hitting the tattered carpet with a squashy thump.

The fall had temporarily winded, her, giving me time to grab my Y-fronts and drag them on. I managed to sweep up my trousers, jacket and boots, and just got out the door, leaving my shirt and socks in the room. I didn't care who saw me, but fled down the stairs. I heard Brenda's door open, and the language that followed me down, I wouldn't even print!

Panting for breath, I dressed in that freezing doorway, ran out into the street to my motorbike. What was left of it! In the hour I had been with Brenda, the local lowlife had hotwired my bike, and ridden it round and round that ghetto style estate until, crashing it into a wall, they had abandoned it. Although it had been my pride and joy, all I wanted was to get the hell out of there, which I did as fast as possible.

I had a few strange looks from other passengers on the bus at my odd attire, but was only too pleased to be away to care. Leaving the bus outside the caravan park, I stumbled up to my caravan, grabbed towel and soap, and made it to the shower block, to erase, if not the memory, at least the smell, of that night.

I didn't fancy work the next day, but to my relief Brenda didn't turn up until the following day. For the next two weeks I avoided her, and ignored the evil look she gave me every time we were in sight of each other, which wasn't often, as I no longer had a motorbike. I just told everyone, including the police, my bike had been stolen and wrecked, which at least was true.