Pursuit of the Older Woman
Copyright© 2005 by Victor Klineman
Introduction
Historical Sex Story: Introduction - Threaded into the tapestry of the history of Europe, this story is about Resistance fighters. It begins when World War II began in The Netherlands when Gerard is on vacation with his aunt in Rotterdam. The blitzkrieg on Rotterdam and their escape to Amsterdam molds Gerard's psyche. When he is taken by the Germans to a concentration camp, he was a naive adolescent. The ever present danger matures him quickly. Rescued from the camp he experiences dangers that few endure.
Caution: This Historical Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Historical First Oral Sex
My fascination with older women began when World War II began in Holland in 1940 while I was on vacation, staying with my Tante Helena Linderstrom in Rotterdam.
My father Marius and mother Sofie sent me to a private school where I studied French, English and German amongst other subjects, and I also played Soccer.
My father comes from an Old Dutch middleclass family and it was his intention that I would attend a university. He wanted me to study law but I didn't like that idea. I wanted to study the Arts, the Humanities we call it today, but my father didn't understand what that was all about.
He was a baker and owned a four-storey building that he had inherited from his father. His sister was the only sibling and she inherited a large sum of money from their father.
The building that my father now owns, 596 Olympische Weg overlooks one of the eighty-eight canals that arc through the city. The canals get their water from Amsterdam harbour and the canal water is refreshed every day.
The ground floor of my father's building is divided into a bread shop and a bakery, which has wood fired ovens. The bread that my father bakes is delicious.
A separate street entrance allows access to the rest of the building. We live in the apartment on the first floor and a Jewish friend of the family lives with his wife and two children in the apartment above us, the top floor my father uses as a storeroom.
My father is six feet three inches tall. He has blue eyes and brown hair; his face is unremarkable except for his large puffy lips, the bottom lip always sagging. It is his arms that are his most noticeable feature; they are large, the muscles heavily developed from kneading dough for many hours each day.
"Your arms make you look like a crab with big pincers," I jokingly told him when I was younger; he cuffed me playfully around the head and told me not to be cheeky.