Mr Jackson

by

Caution: This Romantic Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, .

Desc: Romantic Story: Mr Jackson is at least 70, but even 70 year olds have a libido. His hobby is photography at the local Victorian era greenhouse; but not all his photographs are of the plants, the nubile young waitresses in the cafe are equally interesting subjects.

"Good morning Mister Jackson, how are you today? Your usual table is it?"

"Hello umm" he peered at her name tag "Oh, yes, Kirsty isn't it? Yes, thank you, same table if it's available."

There were only two other tables occupied, both on the ground floor, it was early and he usually found 'his' table free.

He followed her to the spiral stairs and followed her slowly up. He was at least 70 so he made his way slowly; she, a fit young 17 year old, could have rushed on but she matched her pace to his. On the mezzanine floor she conducted him to the table he preferred. Carefully he sat down and placed his camera gently on the table.

"Have you got some good pictures today?"

"Not too many yet, but I'm hopeful thank you my dear."

Always polite, always the pleasant old gentleman, this had rubbed off on the young waitresses and waiters in the Pavilion Café. The café was set in the entrance to the Pavilion greenhouse, one of those Victorian marvels of cast iron and glass that survived long enough to be re-discovered and respected. Designed by Joseph Paxton, It had been restored to its former splendour by grants from various places (the Arts Council, the Architectural Heritage Fund, the George Osborne Fund for Pleasant Buildings, Prince Charles, to name a few) and had had the obligatory café placed in the tall entrance foyer. To the left patrons could proceed into the temperate house with its jungle like greenery inspiring people to do better in their own gardens; to the right the tropical and sub-tropical zones were well represented with orchids and palms. One survivor from the earlier era was discovered to be a new species of Hyderia – Hyderia pavilionensis it was named in honour of the greenhouse. Only after an extensive search was a specimen found in the wild in a remnant of the Belize forest.

Mr Jackson settled himself and ordered his first tea of the day, sometimes he would sit all day in this seat. He admired the view he said. The mezzanine had been added to provide an occasional exhibition space and more seats for the café. The paintings on display by local artist Jocylen Smitt were generally not to his liking, daubings he called them, semi-impressionistic paintings of blobs and splashes of colour. A small display in one corner by Max Hastings (not 'the' Max Hastings of course) of nudes briefly attracted his attention but even they didn't provide the realism that he felt paintings should offer. He still wasn't convinced of the genius of JMW Turner.

The waitresses (and one waiter on duty today) climbed the staircase regularly at first to ensure he was content, but of course as the café filled out they became more distracted. He didn't mind, he wasn't in a hurry to be anywhere. Since his wife died 5 years ago he hadn't needed to be anywhere to meet anyone. His two sons were happy to let him look after himself, it meant they didn't have to bother.

Nothing could persuade you he was anything but a lonely old man filling in time.

.

.

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Henry's Perspective

"Good morning Mister Jackson, how are you today? Your usual table is it?"

The 17 year old was one of his favourite waitresses, her blond hair was attractively waved to her shoulders, he peered at her left breast, the line of her bra was clearly visible through the black cotton teeshirt, he could faintly discern the shape of a nipple in the slight distortion of the mounded protuberance under her clothing. He made a pretence of reminding himself of her name "Kirsty isn't it?"

She was a good waitress, considerate. In deference to his age she mounted the spiral staircase slowly, he follow 3 steps behind her. In this position he could see up to the fleshy tops of her thighs. It was the warm time of the year and no tights were necessary to hide the view of that attractive bare flesh. The skirt wasn't quite short enough to see to her bottom. For one brief, flowering of delightful upskirt viewing a number of girls had started wearing exceptionally short skirts. The first day he had seen this, as he followed a waitress called Madrigal up the stairs his eyes had lit on her black panties with pleasurable surprise. The opening and closing of that space between her legs had been clearly seen with each step, he found the view and the knowledge that beneath that thinnest layer of black material lay the girls tight red slit very erotically charged. He had to sit quicker than usual to hide his erection. He smiled that day, the first erection he'd had from seeing a girl's bottom since, oh, yes, since that visit by the family 7 years ago. His own granddaughter, with her burgeoning teenage body barely covered by a yellow bikini in the garden; a very clear camel toe visible to his eyes. With the usual arrogance of the young (and the middle aged), his son and daughter-in-law apparently assumed he wouldn't have any idea what he was seeing. He wasn't proud of the erection he got that day, inspired as it was by his granddaughter, though he was pleased he could still get one from the sight. That, he recalled, was the last night he had made love to his wife before she got sick.

The golden era of ultra short skirts had been brought to a rapid close by the tweed brigade as he called them – the original reason for sitting upstairs, he couldn't bear to be near these matronly 'women who lunch'. They had noticed the greater interest their husbands, other people's husbands, indeed any man with red blood, had taken in the waitresses; their eyes following them round the café. They had complained to the management of the inappropriately short skirts and a dress rule was brought in. Henry had imagined having to be the quality controller, measuring the girls skirt lengths, "No! Too short, take it off!" He had enjoyed that little reverie. Still, during that time he had seen Madrigal's, Wendy's and Kirsty's panties. He had thought of saying to Kirsty "I see you aren't properly dressed" since she was wearing rather fetching purple lace affairs rather than the fulsome bottom covering black that the company apparently required. He didn't of course, that would have let the cat out of the bag.

.... There is more of this story ...

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