In Her Eyes
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Fiction,
Desc: Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Karl Erickson was an old widower, quietly living out his days. Then, something amazing, something wonderful, happened to him. But coping with change -- even amazing, wonderful change -- is never a simple matter.
When you're an old man, there's still a young man inside you, looking out at the world through your eyes, the way they were, many long years ago.
People laugh and talk of "dirty old men," but it's not really the old man who's "dirty." It's the surviving young man inside him. The one who remembers what it was like to look at a stunning young woman, ripe with youthful beauty and sexuality, and feel a craving for her with every fiber of his being.
Take it from me: I'm 76 years old, and long past my last reliable erection. I wake up, alone in bed in the depths of the night, and, sometimes, my penis is hard -- the way it used to be, or at least, an approximation of the way it used to be.
And I am not too proud to get up and take it into the bathroom, and rub it with lotion or soap, and immerse my hand in hot water, and attempt to reenact, in my mind, the long-ago times when it was a woman's body, and not my hand, that encased my eager organ.
But, likely as not, the middle-of-the-night erection will fade before I can climax; the rubbing is pleasurable, but only in a vague and distant way. If I come, it's a disappointing dribble -- sometimes emerging from an already-softened penis.
Sometimes, the rubbing is so lacking in sensation that I cease even trying to reach an orgasm.
It's a pitiful, and, happily, a private little experience of repeated disappointment. In the daytime, I am still a reasonably vigorous old man, with only a bit of a paunch, and shoulders that still are held back proudly. An old man, but a man.
Or the memory of one, anyway.
But what people don't always realize -- unless, of course, they are themselves old, worn-out men -- is that, inside, the flame still burns brightly. Most of us old fellows treat young women with polite deference. We're well-aware that, for them, we have nothing -- nothing -- to offer. The best we can possibly do is to be courteous, considerate, and kindly, so that these beautiful creatures won't regard us with total contempt.
If we're fortunate, they'll perhaps feel a little sorry for us, but will try not to show it.
The girl in the restaurant was very young. I don't know how young. Eighteen perhaps? Twenty? It's difficult to tell, anymore. There are girls of 13 or 14 these days who look, to me, the way that nineteen-year-olds used to look, in my time. I don't set out to lust after some child barely into her teens; but, looking at some of them, one simply cannot gauge, with any accuracy, their true age.
But, so what, if I silently lust after some girl-child? I'm not about to do her any harm; I couldn't, even if I wanted to.
But this young woman, this waitress. She's gainfully employed, and handsomely endowed, so she has to be an adult, however young an adult she may be. No liquor is served in the little cafe where she works, so it's not necessary that she be old enough legally to serve drinks to customers.
But I estimate that she's probably at least twenty. There's no baby fat. Her waist is impossibly slender, her breasts quite large, and her bottom, oh, God! It is a thing of exquisite beauty! So firm, so prominent. It doesn't matter how long it has been since I was young enough to do a woman any good: This creature is so lovely, so ripe and perfect, that she brings back a flood of memories of all the finest females I've ever had the pleasure to behold.
Seventy-six years old. There is no twinge, at the tip of my flaccid penis, as there would have been, on seeing this woman, years ago. No sudden rush of blood, bringing on an involuntary erection under my breakfast table, there, in the little cafe.
But the sensations -- in my mind -- are the same now as they were, back then. The longing to touch her, to speak to her; not as a customer, but as a young man prepared to demonstrate his excitement at meeting her. The fervent wish to know her. All of those longings are as fresh, and as clear, and as strong as they have ever been.
It is as if I, too, were twenty years old, or thereabouts. It is a melancholy thing to be feeling. Still, to me, it seems better to feel the longing than to feel nothing at all.
There was a large plate glass mirror, I notice, on the wall that I am facing. As she approaches my table, ready to take my order, I notice that I can see her, coming toward me, and, at the same time, see her reflection in the mirror -- her gorgeous, twitchy, provocative bottom, tightly encased in the little short-shorts that she wears under her apron. Her unbelievably lush body, seen front and back, all at the same time.
Almost too much.
She arrives at my table and, smiling at me radiantly, she asks me if I want a menu. I don't. I am a regular Sunday morning breakfast customer. I want my usual -- scrambled eggs, bacon, home fries, unbuttered wheat toast. Hold the coffee, please. As usual, I have brought my own coffee from home. I am enough of a regular that I am mildly surprised that she hasn't already guessed what I would order.
While I recite these ordinary facts, I notice a change in the timbre of my voice that shocks me a little. I hadn't been attempting to be anything that I am not. I know myself. I am just an old man. Nothing more.
I look, again, at the reflection of her bountiful backside in the mirror image from across the room. I feel, again, the pang of longing that, inevitably, seeing her tight little body produces inside me.
Then I notice my own image, in the mirror, too. It has to be me. That is she -- the waitress -- standing at my table, next to the image of the seated man in the mirror.
It has to be me, only, it isn't. It is a young man -- a somewhat familiar-looking young man, broad of shoulder, thick thatch of blond hair, a square, manly jaw.
It is me, but it is an old me -- from a half-century ago, or more. And it isn't even the old me, exactly. It is a familiar-looking young man -- perhaps an idealized version of the young man I had once been. He is dressed in modern clothes, however -- clothes not far distant from those I had worn, in the real world, that morning, but not precisely the same clothes, either.
The clothes fit the young man well. His thirty-inch waist is tightly encased in stylish jeans that fit -- not in the worn, 40-inch waist "relaxed fit" Wal-Mart jeans I had worn that day, the ones with the worn knees and the small hole, just above the left knee.
I am looking, in the mirror, at an idealized version of me, as a young man.
But is it my own ideal I am looking at? Or hers?
The young woman took my order and retreated behind the cash register to convey it to the cook. Alone, now, I examine myself in the mirrored wall opposite and expect to see an old man again. But I see, still, the same handsome young fellow I'd seen before.
It wasn't me, as a young man. Not precisely. It wasn't even, precisely, the young man I might have chosen to be. It was just a similar, but different, younger version of me -- a present-day version, but a half-century after the original had faded into oblivion.
I wondered if the other people in the cafe were seeing the same person that I was seeing. Did the waitress -- my exquisite, unbelievably sexy waitress -- also see me this way? Did the other people who worked there? The other customers?
My waitress, and two others, all young women, were huddled behind the cash register, across the room from me. All were looking in my direction. All three were showing a lively interest, whispering, giggling, smiling slyly behind their hands. Unmistakably, they all three were looking at me with frank interest -- appraisal.
"My" waitress, evidently, has said something to the others, and they were checking me out.
Or perhaps they were merely joined in private ridicule of the preening old man, there, pretending to be something that he was not.
I look at the mirror again. He -- the young, handsome man with the broad shoulders and the confident countenance -- looks back at me, straight in the eye. There is no mistaking it; I can see him clearly; more clearly than I have seen anything in decades. My glasses -- the glasses I'd been wearing when I came into this cafe -- aren't even on my face! I don't know what has become of them.
My breakfast arrives. It is delicious. I consume every morsel, drink the coffee I'd brought along with me from home. Finished, I leave a handsome tip, and go to pay for my breakfast at the register. The young woman who made change (a different young woman) looks up at me with unmistakable interest in her eyes.
It was not the kind of look she'd have given to a 76-year-old man.
I notice that my wrists and hands, accepting the coins and bills, are not those of an old man.
This is astounding! What has happened to me?
When I leave the restaurant, I find that, whoever I now was, I still had the keys to my minivan, and that it still unlocks at the touch of the remote. The aging minivan seems, suddenly, in inappropriate vehicle for a 20-something stud with broad shoulders and a Joe Palooka-style thatch of thick blond hair. But the minivan starts up, and I drive off in it, all the same.
Out of sight of the cafe, I suddenly feel smaller in the driver's seat. My hands, on the steering wheel, are the wrinkled hands of an old man again. My forearms are covered in dry skin and liver spots, just as they had been, when I awoke that morning. My glasses -- bifocals -- are back perched on my nose where they belong.
The dream is over. I am just -- me, again.
It had been an emotionally draining experience. An illusion, apparently. I was back to my old self again -- my really old self -- three-quarters-of-a-century-and-counting.
The sadness I had felt, earlier, silently looking at the young woman -- all the young women -- in the cafe and remembering, with a mixture of pleasure and pain, the times when the way I regarded them was so very different from now -- that sadness was nothing, compared to the bitter pain I now felt, at this transformation -- this moment of exaltation I had felt in the cafe, and now this terrible, terrible return to reality. It would have been far better, I thought, never to have experienced such a moment at all!
But it had been so real! How could one explain it? A hallucination, perhaps? The onset of Alzheimer's?
Everything about it, though, had seemed real. The way she looked at me; the way all the young waitresses had looked at me -- with speculative interest, as if I'd perhaps been the New Guy in Town.
All, no doubt, my imagination, running away with me. Like a waking wet dream.
Well, if it was a waking wet dream, I might as well just enjoy it. I wasn't experiencing any other kinds of wet dreams, these days.
Usually, I only went to the little cafe in the strip mall on Sundays. The place had the best home fries in town, and all the food was prepared with care. The prices were good, too. Their coffee, unfortunately, was inferior, but they never objected when I came in carrying my own 20-ounce thermal cup, filled to the brim with my coffee-from-home. They would even offer to refill my cup for me, when it was time for me to leave.
I usually declined the offer; the cafe's coffee just wasn't up to snuff.
Usually, I only went there on Sunday.
So why was I going back again, on Monday morning?
Well, there was no real harm in it. I was an old widower, I had a handsome pension from my old life as a high-ranking federal bureaucrat. I lived well. My late wife's life insurance had been adequate to pay off the mortgage on our house. I had lived there, now, alone, for the past four years. But I had been content. My biggest expense, by far, was gardening. My wife had been a wonderful gardener, spending long hours outdoors, working on her many flower gardens, spread throughout our very large yard.
Now, having no interest of my own in gardening, but unwilling to let all her work go for naught, I paid for professional services to keep up her gardens as best they could. I had even advertised for help from amateur gardeners who might enjoy access to our rich array of plant life. I paid two women, both in their late middle age, to come out and work on the rose garden and on the large flower garden next to the house. The pay was nominal -- these two women had been what I had hoped to find -- lovers of gardening without a challenging yard to call their own. But the necessary supplies they requested to perform their work were sometimes dauntingly expensive.
Between the well-paid professionals and the lightly paid amateurs, our gardens were in creditable shape. My wife would have been proud of me for having attempted to maintain them -- even though I hardly raised a finger to do any of the work myself.
And so, here I was, on a Monday morning, back at the No Name Cafe, in the strip mall, seven miles from my house and yard. The cafe had a big sign over its storefront entrance. It said "RESTAURANT." It might have called itself "Restaurant," but to me, it always seemed more like just a cafe.
It was 7 a.m. and the place was, on a working day, much busier than I usually found it early on Sunday. There were four waitresses on duty, and they all seemed quite busy with customers. I didn't see a table available, so I reluctantly took a stool at the L-shaped counter just inside the door.
I saw that "my" waitress was on duty, but I was, unfortunately, not seated in her assigned area.
No matter. I could see her, moving swiftly back and forth between the dining area and the kitchen. I had a wonderful view of her lithe body, dressed, as before, in short-sleeved pullover, apron, and figure-hugging shorts that set off her long, shapely legs.
She noticed me. She looked at me for what seemed like a long time. But she was occupied with customers and their orders, and soon she looked away and disappeared into the dining area, separated from my position by a latticework wall.
"May I take your order, sir?"
It was one of the other young women who worked there. She had arrived directly in front of me, just across the counter, and I hadn't even noticed. She smiled knowingly. She seemed to know that my eyes had been locked on The Girl, for as long as she had been in view.
"That's Ellie," my waitress said.
"I beg your pardon?" I said.
"The one in the tan shorts? Ellie. Her name is Ellie."
"Oh. Oh, yes."
"I can tell you're interested in her," she said. She was smiling. She evidently didn't think it was strange, or disgusting, for an old man to be staring at this nubile young woman in her tan shorts.
But I glanced down at my own forearm and hand.
I realized that "he" was back. Joe Palooka. The young, strong, blond man with the shoulders.
"All of you -- all of the young women who work here, are very attractive," I told my waitress.
It was true. I'd noticed it before. The three on Sunday -- the same three, and one extra -- I saw here, today. All of them were of a type -- painfully young, shapely, sexy. The proprietor, a fifty-something woman with a European accent, probably knew a little something about merchandizing. These young women could have transferred, as a group, to work for a Hooters Restaurant -- if our little town had had a Hooters.
"Thanks, for the kind words," the young woman said dryly. "... But only one of the women who works here really has your eye. And that's Ellie."
I smiled at her. "Yes," I said. "I guess that's true."
"She's noticed you, too," the young woman said.
"Ellie has?" I was skeptical. I may be Joe Palooka on the outside, but, inside, I was still an old, old man, and not at all confident that I wasn't destined to revert to being one again, at any moment.
"Oh, yeah!" she said. "Listen, if we weren't so busy, she'd have waited on you herself. She wanted to. When you came in, she told me she wanted to wait on you, and I said it was OK... But she just hasn't had a chance. Too busy. And her assigned tables are all way over there, in the front, on the other side!"
"Do you think that, if I... stayed around, until things got calmed down, she might come by and say hello?"
"I know she will!" the young woman said. "Meanwhile, I'm Doreen. What can I get for you?"
I ordered my usual... No coffee, thanks.
I enjoyed my scrambled eggs, bacon and home fries, finished my 20-ounces of coffee-from-home, and asked Doreen for a mug of their awful local stuff. This place had its drawbacks. The coffee just wasn't up to par and they didn't even have the blue stuff for sweetener -- or the yellow stuff, either. Just that awful pink stuff, which I could never abide.
I had to use regular sugar. Well, why the hell not? I had a 30-inch waist again! How long had it been since I could say that? Maybe a half-century?
Ellie still hadn't found an opportunity to come by (assuming that she was looking for one) but Doreen hung close. The counter, by now, was mostly empty. I'd noticed one young man (not as young as I was, these days, but pretty young) who'd been admiring Doreen in much the same way that I was trying to catch a glimpse of Ellie at every opportunity. Doreen's admirer finally, seemingly reluctantly, got up to go, taking his check to the cash register.
"I see that you have your admirers, too," I told Doreen, when she came to freshen up my terrible coffee.
"That guy?" she said. "Yeah. He's in here a lot. He's OK. Good tipper. And you're right -- he's an admirer of mine."
"He's not so bad, is he?" I asked.
"He's OK. Too old for me."
"How old are you?" I asked her. I wondered whether it was an appropriate question, for a "young" man like me to be asking a young woman. Who could remember such niceties?
"I'm 19," Doreen said. "That guy's probably -- I don't know -- thirty? Too old for me. And he's probably got a wife and kid, somewheres."
"Could be, I guess."
"How old are you?" she asked me right back.
Good question. The truth, certainly, wouldn't do. I wasn't above lying, but I didn't have much to go on. Just my day-old image in a mirror, from across the room, when I'd first realized that something -- something wondrous and inexplicable -- had occurred.
"I'm not thirty!" I said.
"Of course you're not!" Doreen agreed. "... You're -- oh -- 24... 25 maybe?"
"Twenty-six," I said, deciding that subtracting a nice, round fifty years would be the best way to keep things simple.
"You don't look that old!" Doreen said.
No shit, I thought -- but I said nothing. "Do you know... how old... Ellie is?" I asked her.
"She's our old lady!" Doreen said. "Ellie's twenty-two!"
My daughter, I reflected, was currently 53 years old. She'd been relatively late to marry and have children. She had a daughter -- my granddaughter, Cynthia.
Cynthia was, this year, 23 years old.
Older than Ellie. I was sitting here, waiting for the morning rush hour to end, so that I could get acquainted with a young woman who was a contemporary of my granddaughter.
How sick is that?
But -- don't forget, I was 26, and didn't look that old.
Ellie finally made her way over, behind the counter, to stand before me. Doreen, I noticed, had made herself scarce. In fact, Doreen was over busing tables in Ellie's assigned section.
These girls stuck together. Doreen was making certain Ellie had an opportunity to talk to me, before I, perhaps, lost patience and left. I mean, what did they know about me? Maybe I had a job to go to. Maybe I was a student at the local university.
No. I was a pensioner. I had no place I needed to be. In fact, the last thing I wanted to do was to walk out that door, get into my minivan, and find myself, a few blocks away, a broken-down old man again.
"Hi," Ellie said. "I'm Ellie Snow."
"Karl," I responded, "Karl Erickson..."
It was my name. My real name. I guess I could be Karl Erickson, Junior. No. Not unless my "father," Karl Erickson, was fifty years old when I was born. That was possible, of course, but a little unlikely. I guess I'd have to be Karl Erickson III. I never approved of that "the third" business, but I'd given her my name, and now I had to live with it -- or with some variation of it, anyway. It reminded me of an old, old novelty song, "I'm My Own Grandpa."
But I wasn't going to say "the third," right out of the box. It sounded too... pretentious. Precious.
"You new in town, Karl?" Ellie asked.
"Visiting," I said, making a story up as I went along. "My... uhh... grandfather lives here. I'm... uhh, house-sitting for him, while he's out-of-town."
"I hope you're not going to be leaving town, right away," she said.
This girl didn't play games. She was frankly interested in me. She wasn't afraid to say so. That was charming. Disarming.
I decided I'd be just as frank with her. "If I had been planning to leave, I'd have reconsidered," I told her, "after I saw you."
"Oh, my! Aren't you the forward-passer!" Ellie said, smiling.
"I noticed you -- yesterday -- when I came in," I said. "I had to come back again today, to see if you were for real!"
"If you're trying to smooth-talk me, it's working!" Ellie said, laughing.
"But -- don't come back tomorrow," she said.
My face must have fallen a foot. Was she suggesting that I was becoming a nuisance? Had her boss complained? "Why not?" I asked her.
"Because Tuesday is my day off," she said, smiling broadly.
"Oh! I'm glad to told me," I said. "If I had come in tomorrow, and found you gone, I'd have been devastated!"
"Devastated?... Strong word!"
"All right, then... Bereft," I offered. "... Shattered... Destroyed!"
"I think maybe I should steer clear of you," Ellie said. "You're too glib, by half!"
"Not so!" I protested. "I'm... nearly speechless! I can hardly even... talk... my mouth is so dry!"
She laughed, delightedly.
My mind was racing. If the next day was her day off from work, the natural thing would be for me to ask her out. To dinner, at least. There weren't many places to ask a young woman to go, in our tiny city. No weekday matinees, no ballgames. There was a larger city, with more amenities, but it was 45 minutes away, and besides, a man didn't ask a girl he'd just met to go to another, somewhat distant city, on a date. Too personal. Too forward.
But, more importantly, I wasn't certain exactly what would happen, if we were to go out together. Would I revert to Old Manhood, as soon as we left the restaurant? That's what had happened, yesterday, as soon as I was away from the place.
But I had to take the chance.
"Might we, perhaps, go out together, tomorrow, on your day off?" I ventured, cautiously.
"I'm in school," she said. "Tuesdays and Thursdays are the only days that I have morning classes scheduled. Thursdays I work a split schedule here -- lunch rush and evenings. Tuesdays, I don't work at all, but it's my busiest day, for classes."
"College girl," I said, stupidly.
"And you thought I was just a working girl," she teased.
"Working girl." The phrase had other, more risqué connotations for me than it did, evidently, for Ellie.
No, I didn't think she was a working girl, but I admit I was gratified to hear that she was a college girl. I had my half-century-old Master's Degree in Public Administration. I was -- or once had been -- a college boy, and I admit that Ellie's student status made her even more attractive, in my eyes. It was, of course, perfectly possible that a "working girl" with only a high school education could be as clever and as intelligent as anyone, but I had been to college, ad nauseam, and I guess the accompanying attitudes still held.
She was gorgeous. She was built like God had taken a personal interest in perfecting every detail, and she was a hard-working, self-supporting college student of legal age.
And she was interested in me, and making no bones about it!
I was in love.