Chapter 1

I saw her in the Kwicky Mart. She was helping a little boy, I assumed her son, select flavors of Frosty-Freez, that store's version of a Slurpee. Damn she was magnificent. But the fact that I was taken with her, surprised me the most.

She was no older than 25, and most likely about 21. She was tall, about 5'7". I usually like shorter women. Also I like older women, Jen and Brenda really were exceptions though I never would have hit on them, they seduced me, in a way.

On the upside, she was almost what I would call beautiful, though she was dressed in low-end jeans and a pullover, and her shoes were worn. Her clothes, however, were spotless, as were her kid's, and she filled them out as if they were tailored for her. She had quite a bust, though it seemed as if her bra was a couple sizes small. You know, her sweater had that overstuffed look. Her boobs were rounded to the point where it looked like a ravel in her sweater would result in everything busting out. I'd bet they were at least D, maybe DD.

Her rear wasn't exactly 'bubble ass' but was perfectly rounded, rode high, and was really firm. I felt my cock twitch a little and, at my age, that means something. I looked at her left hand, no ring. She wasn't by any means thin but she wasn't fat, either. I guessed she weighed about 140 lbs, maybe a little more but she also had no belly other than that delectable little pooch below the navel that comes to most mature women after childbirth.

In short, I classified her as the type I'd come to know as 'Breeder'. That's not as derogatory as it sounds; rather it's an earthy sensuality that in no way could be called overtly 'sexy' or slutty. A sensuality that often co-manifested with character and bearing.

I'd already checked out at the register but I loitered around just drinking her in. I was a little annoyed with myself, is how I would put it. I pride myself on not being the archetypical 'dirty old man', and I wondered if my newfound appreciation for young stuff, brought about by my arrangement with Jen and Brenda, two of my renters who I occasionally partied with, had something to do with it.

Probably.

She paid for 15 dollars gas and the Frosty-Freez and after pumping the gas, she and the boy left in a fifteen year old Civic. The car was also clean as a pin, on the outside anyway, even though the paint was worn through to the primer in a few places. I couldn't help it, I followed her from quite a distance hoping she was driving to her home. She was. A few blocks away, in a rundown neighborhood. As she pulled to the curb, I drove past slowly enough to see her take a few grocery bags from the trunk and with the boy carrying the smallest one, walk up to the front door and let herself in using a key.

I pulled open my day-timer and made a note of the address, and labeled it 'YoungMom'. Then I turned a corner and turned around to drive back by, this time noting the car registration number. I had no idea what I was going to do with this information, I certainly didn't plan to stalk her and it was laughable to even think she would be interested in me, a sixty year old geezer.

Ah, well. It was probably just a passing fantasy, something to savor and move on. It wasn't. I couldn't get her out of my head, even to the point of having what might amount to a wet dream, if I hadn't woke up before I even got her sweater off.

Still, I have some discipline and decency and, though I'm writing about this in a place where such accounts abide, kidnapping her and turning her into my love-slave was out of the question ... well for me, anyway. Yes, I DID daydream about that.

I decided to put her out of my mind. But I couldn't quite bring myself to rip out that daytimer page and toss it.

What struck me was that, while she was obviously in the low to no income bracket, her actions when I saw her spoke of good upbringing. She had talked with her young son in the store but I never heard her voice, she poke so quietly. He was perhaps four and behaved perfectly, though he was obviously a little excited at getting a treat.

As it happened, a few days later I was channel surfing and I happened on a local news feature on young parents and the trouble they were having making ends meet in the current economy. And the young woman was on screen and interviewed briefly. She apparently was a member and volunteer staff of a young parents' self-help group. I quickly found a pen and wrote down the name of the organization. I would send them a donation.

That afternoon, I bought a postal Money Order for the amount of $500 and sent it using a fictitious name. I hate being on donor mailing lists. Bad enough every freaking organization in the county got my name from probate records when my great aunt died and left me her considerable estate. Let's just say, it was a healthy seven figure amount. Enough that I really didn't have to work or even mess around with rental properties. But it was something to do and kept me busy.

Donating only increased my curiosity about the woman. In the interview, she was indeed soft spoken and her diction was that of someone who was educated and, at least, middle class nurtured. I wondered what her story was. And I wondered what I could do for her, specifically.

I found the answer a couple days later. Again, on TV. I was watching a movie on, get this ... LMN ... yeah, the wimmin's sob story network, and I saw a local commercial for Mr Kenneth's Spa, which initially surprised me because it was really upscale and had an exclusive clientele. Apparently times were tough for even the mid to upper income brackets. I made a note to remember that.

The next day I called the spa and made sure the manager was in. I hightailed it over there and talked to the manager and came to a deal. I handed him an envelope containing $1500 and a few other goodies, got a specially printed gift certificate and went back home figuring out what to do next.

I figured the best approach was the direct approach. I printed up an insert certificate of my own with specific instructions.