Nan's Best Mate | NEON LIT

"Your nan's not well, love."

Brenda's standing on the doorstep, bottle of Lambrini in each hand, full face of makeup for bingo. She's sixty-three but doesn't look it—or rather, she looks it but doesn't care. Leopard print top, tight jeans, heels that are probably killing her feet.

"She's got a migraine. Gone to bed early."

"Oh no." Brenda's face falls. "And I've got the good gossip tonight and everything."

"Sorry, Brenda. Maybe next week?"

She looks at me. Then at the Lambrinis. Then back at me.

"Well, I'm not drinking these on my own, am I? Shift over."

Twenty minutes later, we're on Nan's sofa with the telly on low.

Brenda's already halfway through the first bottle, telling me about some drama at bingo last week—someone accused someone else of cheating, nearly came to blows, the whole nine yards.

"Sixty years old, both of them, scrapping like teenagers." She cackles. "I tell you, love, old people are wild."

"You'd know."

"Oi!" She swats my arm. "I'm not old. I'm mature. There's a difference."

"What's the difference?"

"Mature means I know what I'm doing." She winks, takes another swig. "In all areas, if you catch my drift."

The second bottle goes down faster.

Brenda's moved closer on the sofa—not obviously, just inch by inch—and her stories have gotten dirtier. The bloke she shagged in the toilets at Butlins in 1985. The threesome she had in Magaluf. The affair with her sister's husband that no one talks about.

"You're making half this up," I say.

"Swear on me life." She crosses her heart, drawing attention to tits that are still impressive at sixty-three. "I was a right goer back in the day. Still am, when I get the chance."

"When's the last time you got the chance?"

"That's personal." But she's smiling. "Why, you offering?"

I laugh. She doesn't.

"I'm serious, love." She sets down her glass. "You're young, fit, stuck in this house looking after your nan. When's the last time you got any?"

"That's—"

"Too long, I bet." She moves closer. Close enough that I can smell her perfume—something old-fashioned, like roses. "I've seen you, you know. At family dos. The way you look at women who aren't skinny little things."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You like 'em with a bit of meat." Her hand lands on my thigh. "Like me."

"Brenda, you're my nan's mate."

"And she's upstairs with a migraine." Her hand slides higher. "What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

"This is mental."

"Probably." She's close now, close enough that I can see the lines around her eyes, the slightly smudged lipstick, the years written on her face. "But I've fancied you since you were old enough to fancy, and I'm too old to waste more time pretending otherwise."

She kisses me before I can respond.

Her mouth is soft, experienced, tasting like cheap wine and desperation. She kisses like she's got nothing to lose—because at sixty-three, what's left to lose?

"Bedroom," she breathes. "Not yours. The guest room. In case your nan wakes up."

The guest room is rarely used, smelling of dust and old sheets.

Brenda doesn't care. She's already pulling off her leopard print top, revealing a bra that's working overtime to contain her.

"Don't just stand there, love. Help a girl out."

I unclasp her bra. Her tits spill free—heavy, sagging, with big dark nipples. They're not young tits. They're lived-in tits. And something about that makes them even more appealing.

"Have a feel then." She grabs my hands, puts them on her. "Not gonna break, am I?"

I push her onto the bed.

She squeals—delighted, surprised—as I pull off her jeans. Underneath she's wearing proper knickers, not a thong, but they're leopard print to match the top.

"I like a theme," she says, catching my look.

I pull them off. Her pussy's greyed at the edges, proof of her years, but she's wet—wetter than I expected.

"Told you I'm not past it." She spreads her thick thighs. "Now are you gonna make an old woman very happy, or what?"

I eat her out first.

She tastes different from younger women—muskier, stronger—but she responds like she's been waiting decades for someone to do this properly. Her thick thighs clamp around my head. Her hands tangle in my hair. Her moans are loud enough that I pray Nan's migraine is keeping her asleep.

"Oh fuck—oh fuck, love—right there—don't stop—"

She comes with a shudder that shakes the bed, flooding my face.

"Get up here," she gasps. "Get inside me before I change my mind."

I fuck my nan's best mate on the guest bed.

She's not tight—sixty-three years and probably plenty of action in between—but she knows what she's doing. She wraps her legs around me, matches my rhythm, urges me on with words that would make a sailor blush.

"That's it, love—give it to me proper—been so long since I had a young one—"

"How long?"

"Ten years at least." She pulls me down, kisses me between gasps. "My Trevor was useless. You're not. Don't you dare stop."

I don't stop. I fuck her until she comes again, until I come too, until we're both sweaty and breathless on sheets that are definitely going in the wash.

After, she lights a fag.

"You're not supposed to smoke in here."

"What's your nan gonna do, smell it through her migraine?" She blows smoke at the ceiling. "Relax, love. I'll open a window."

She does. Then she comes back to bed, cuddles up against me like we're teenagers.

"This stays between us, yeah?"

"Obviously."

"Good." She runs her hand down my chest. "Because I'd like to do it again sometime. When your nan's at bingo and I've got a headache."

"You'd skip bingo for this?"

"Love, I'd skip my own funeral for this." She grins, all smudged lipstick and satisfaction. "You're a natural. Shame to waste that talent on girls your own age."

Nan never finds out.

Why would she? Brenda still comes round for bingo every Thursday. They still drink Lambrini and gossip about everyone on the estate.

But now, every other week, Brenda gets a headache and I get a text.

Your nan's at bingo. Fancy keeping me company?

I always fancy it.

Sixty-three never looked so good.