Estelle Ch. 01

Well, hello again, Gentle Reader. I hope the day finds you well.

If you're looking for the graphic, detailed sex act that is the centerpiece of my stories, you might want to wait for Chapter Two of this one.

What happened was this - I woke yesterday morning, and my muse had been busy. This story was there, just waiting to be written down. I had the image of Estelle in my mind and, well, all I need to do is look in the mirror, subtract a half-century, and there's the image of the other main character in this work.

As those of you who read my stuff know, much of it is at least in part autobiographical. Yes, my mother did own and operate one of the last privately owned nursing homes in Denver, although they called it a "convalescent home." I think today it would probably be more of a hospice facility. Yes, the woman who got my virginity was 84 - at least that's what she said - and somewhere north of 300 pounds. And yes, as a result of that, my tastes have always run to "mature" women, candidly, the older, the better.

I liked the idea of a blind date, and when I started writing, I figured this would be about ten double-spaced pages of sex, that's two of Literotica's pages.

But a funny thing happened.

I found I liked these characters. I didn't want to end it with Estelle satisfied and David heading out the door.

So, here it is. Meet David and Estelle. Get to know them. They're interesting, and I can't wait to see how things work out for them. Stick with me, and I think this could get interesting. Let's be that fly on the wall, shall we, and see.

"A blind date?" I asked.

"Yeah, and you'll like her," Marty said. Marty had been my best friend since third grade. He knew everything there was to know about me. That included my taste in women.

"Who do you have me set up with?" I asked.

He grinned then.

"My grandmother," he said.

"I see," I said, very interested now.

"Grampa Jim died," he went on, "so Grammi Estelle moved back to town, and she says the men at the center just don't interest her."

"Center?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, "She moved into Happy Village. The Activity Center hosts dances and games and all sorts of shit but she says she's bored."

I was interested. I basically grew up in a nursing home as my mother struggled with her alcoholism, new regulations, and escalating costs to keep the family business running. And the thing is, after that, I just never could find girls my own age interesting. They all seemed, well, giggly and silly to me. I suppose your tastes get set early, and in my case, the 84-year-old woman who claimed my virginity certainly set mine.

"And what do you have in mind for this blind date?" I asked.

He laughed.

"Hell, I'm already pimping out my grandmother," he said, "you want me to strip her too? Give me your phone."

He knew my passcode, of course, keyed it in, and then keyed in ten digits.

"Hey, Grammi, it's Marty," he said.

"Yes, I know it's a different number. You know that guy I told you about? Well, say hi," he said, handing me the phone.

I was, for one of those rare times in my life, speechless. I just couldn't think of a thing to say.

"Hello?" she said, the lilt in her voice making the word a question.

I liked her voice. It was a little husky. I could picture her smoking a cigarette, a strong drink in one of those round glasses, what my mother called a "highball" glass, in her free hand.

"Ummmmm," I managed to get my tongue untied, "This is David, the guy Marty told you about."

"Well, hello, David," she said, and now my image was of her with a cigarette in her hand, reclined on the bed, smiling. She had one of THOSE voices.

I felt the smile spread across my face, and Marty smiled back at me.

"And hello to you too, Estelle," I said. "Could I interest you in dinner?"

Her soft chuckle fit her voice, deep and throaty.

"Well, that depends, David," she said. "Do you know the word gerontophile?"

It was my turn to chuckle, and I did.

"Yes, Estelle, I do," I said, "But for me, it's just that mature women are more interesting. It's not about age or age gap or my mommy issues, of which I have some. It's just that with age comes experience, and experience is interesting."

She laughed this time, a healthy, throaty sound that I liked.

"Good answer, David," she said. "Yes, I think I'd be interested in dinner and maybe a drink afterward."

I grinned into the phone, wondering if she could hear the grin in my voice when I said, "Italian food okay?"

"Mmmmmmmm," she said, "I'll kill anyone you name for a good lasagna."

"I'll have the names when I pick you up," I said. "Sevenish okay?"

"Seven would be fine, Dear," she said, "but I don't do 'ish.' Be on time, please."

"Fair enough," I said. "What's your address?"

She rattled off an address, 7683 Pleasant View, if it matters, and I said, "See you PROMPTLY at seven," and hit "End."

Marty was grinning.

"What?" I asked.

"I'm just wondering which one of you will get a lesson," he said.

"Oh, I will. That's why I love the old ladies," I said.

"Okay," he said, "I gotta roll. You know how it is. I prefer the young ladies and Carla's tits are calling, I can hear them from here."

I laughed and said, "Have fun. How big ARE those damn things anyway?"

His current girlfriend, Carla, had an ID that proved she was 18, looked like very dangerous jailbait, and was one of those girls with such enormous boobs you wanted to see her in the swimming pool just to see if she'd bob like a cork on those things.

He laughed and said, "My hand to God, her bras are 38FF."

I cupped my hand to my ear, laughed, and said, "Yeah, I hear them calling."

We slapped hands, man hugged, and he was gone.

I sat, thinking.

I knew Marty's age; like mine, he was 23. I knew his mother had been almost 40 when he was born. "Daddy's little surprise," his family always called him. That meant his grandmother, assuming she was 20 or so when Marty's mother was born, could be pretty deep into her 70s.

In other words, from my gerontophilic point-of-view, she could be just about perfect.

I wanted to make the best first impression, so I took my little blue chick magnet to the carwash and sprung for the $40 El Supremo wash and wax, a power wash followed by a hand finish.

My car is a bright blue PT Cruiser convertible that is, as far as I know, unique. I have the high-performance turbo engine mated to a five-speed transmission. To get it like I wanted it, I had to find the engine in a junkyard. I rebuilt it carefully, doing those little hot rodder's tricks that probably weren't really needed with new engines. The heads were milled, ported, and polished, everything was hand-checked and assembled to the ideal specification. It was what my cousin and his buddies called "blue printed." I didn't have access to a dyno, but I figured I had about 250 horsepower available, up from the stock engine's 230 hp. After I carefully trimmed a few pounds here and a few pounds there, I had it down to 3,035 pounds with a full gas tank. With that power-to-weight ratio, it was both quick and fast, although with that much horsepower, you had to be aware of the torque steer.

Anyway, it served its purpose, which, of course, was to attract chicks.

The car clean and ready, I started focusing on myself.

I trimmed my beard first. I was past the veteran-coming-home phase of thinking the Army owed me almost four years of shaves and haircuts, so the hair was back to my Rick-Nelson-at-18 length and look, and the beard was closely trimmed. I thought the first threads of silver in my hair and beard gave me a bit of gravitas.

I showered, spent a few minutes with a nail file while Mrs. Katt, one of the residents at Mom's nursing home, not the one who claimed my virginity but one with whom a spent quite a bit of time, told me in that coarse, high pitched, old woman's voice of hers, "Keep your fingernails trimmed, Davey," as she carefully wiped at a line on her arm where I had scratched her during one of those lessons she enjoyed giving (and receiving). For some reason, that line stuck, and I always tended to my nails before a date.

I dressed conservatively in an Oxford cloth, button down shirt, khaki pants - my uniform pants, actually, but here in the World, just beige pants, bright socks, and black loafers.

And here I was, ready at a little after five to pick up my date at seven "on the dot."

"What are you, thirteen?" I asked the bonehead in the mirror because that is exactly what I felt like.

I flashed back to my sixth grade date to take the love of my life roller skating.

Yep. That's exactly what I felt like.

On some level, I liked being this keyed up. I played some Call of Duty on my Xbox for about an hour, looked at the clock, and it was 5:34.

My attempt to read the assignment for next week in my Econ 101 class got me to 5:41.

"Well, fuck," I said aloud and then had a thought.

I gassed the car up, went to the mall, a place I almost never frequented, and went to the florist.

"Help you?" the high school girl working the register asked, the lack of interest in my answer pouring off of her in waves.

"I'm going on a date, and I'd like a corsage. You know? Like I was taking her to the prom or something like that," I said.

"We don't do corsages anymore," she said, finally bothering to look up from the phone in her hand.

"Don't do them here?" I asked.

"No," she said, hitting me with a teenage girl's eyeroll that almost made me laugh in her face, "for prom. For that matter, we don't do proms much except for the nerds."

"Soooo," I said, giving her my best boyish grin, "let's pretend I'm a nerd."

Now, I don't "feel" handsome. When I look in the mirror, I see a round-faced, curly-haired, kind of goofy-looking guy. But I've been told I'm good-looking enough times by people whose judgment I trust that I accept that I'm at least easy on the eyes as Josee, another of the ladies at the nursing home, might have put it.

So I turned on my absolute BEST, high wattage grin, "Show me corsages, please."

Sure enough, they did have some prepared. Fancy that, in a florist shop and all.

"I want one you pin on," I said, and beyond that, I didn't know anything about flowers. She sold me a very pretty thing with a single flower. I'm not sure what you call it, but it was a delicate pink color with dark spots on the petals, with a small bunch of tiny white and purple flowers surrounding it.

"Check me out on how to pin it," I said.

She looked at me in that way only a woman can pull off that is her equivalent of a man saying "What the fuck?"

"No," I said, chuckling, "I'm not trying to cop a feel. Show me how the pin thing works."

She relaxed and showed me how to pin the corsage to cloth properly.

That side trip got me to 6:17 by the clock on the dashboard.

"Well, fuck it," I said aloud to myself and then laughed and said, again aloud, "You haven't even met this woman and she already has you talking to yourself."

That exchange with myself somehow eased my nervousness. I drove to Happy Village and scouted around.

It was precisely what you would expect from a place that advertised itself as "The ideal setting for active senior citizens to enjoy the golden years." No, I didn't write that drivel, and whoever did should never be allowed to write copy again.

The streets were wide and far better maintained than the city streets I drove on to get to the place. Sidewalks and an extra lane, something I finally figured out was for bicycles and golf carts, bordered manicured lawns. The whole development featured a mixture of single-family, duplex, fourplex, and multi-story buildings I assumed were condominiums that had a family resemblance but didn't fall into the trap of subdivisions the nation over that will have a hundred houses built on two or three floorplans. There was the "sameness," to be sure, but the developers had avoided uniformity. I didn't particularly like it, but it was, well, "pleasant" is a plain vanilla enough word to describe it.

I drove around, more or less aimlessly, while I worked out the layout. And the place was huge. I logged several miles on the car inside the fences and didn't explore everything before it was time to find Estelle's house. The streets tended to gentle curves and cul de sacs that radiated out from a central complex that I figured out was a combination community center, medical center, shopping area, and park. As I wandered around, I found three other commercial clusters featuring grocery stores, fast food and sit-down restaurants, a movie theater, and a CVS drugstore, making me wonder if Happy Village had franchised CVS.

I killed enough time that it was, according to my dashboard clock, 6:59 when I pulled into the driveway at her house, and I stood, grinning, at the door, my finger poised at the doorbell button, until my watch blinked 7:00.

I pushed the doorbell, and my hand was still in the air when the door opened.

"You're prompt," she said and that damn voice sounded even better in person than it had over the phone.

My first impression, and the impression that has not changed a bit over the intervening years, was that Estelle was pretty. She wasn't beautiful like a Sophia Loren or Marilyn Monroe, or cute like Sally Fields or Meg Ryan. But she was pretty, the kind of attractive that made you lose concentration on your conversation when she walked by and look at her.

As I looked, starting at the top and working my way down, I felt like I was admiring a statue at the Art Museum or something. She had that kind of effect on me.

Her hair was a soft halo framing her round face. She had gone with that pale beige color with just a hint of pink in the gold, something I think they call Strawberry Blonde. Since I like older women, I tended to look, and this was the color that seems to have replaced that pale blue that was once the standard old lady color. Her face was round with enough plumpness that her skin was smooth and incredibly pink. I'm experienced enough to know that this was, at least in part, the careful application of makeup, but you need a good base to look as good as she did.

Her blue eyes were surrounded by about a million tiny wrinkles, and I thought they were sexy. Bedroom eyes, or maybe, as the old song put it, "Bette Davis eyes."

Her cheeks were plump and smooth, making lines of jowls that framed her chin, which had a cute dimple. Her mouth was small and full, and when she smiled, I felt a little KLANG in my head when I saw that she had fallen victim to the tooth-whitening craze. It looked out of place on her pretty face.

She was dressed for date night. Her pale blue blouse set off her pink skin, and I was sure she had chosen it for that purpose. Her dark blue skirt was wide enough to let her walk freely, but it wasn't that soft material that would sway with every step, something I had heard called a "flirty skirt." She had on stockings, making me wonder if it was pantyhose or, fingers crossed, a garter belt and nylons. Moderately high heels did good things for her legs, although I noticed she had the wide-heeled type, not spikes.

For jewelry, she had a necklace that looked like she probably bought it on a trip to a reservation somewhere. It was turquoise and nestled nicely right at the bottom of her incipient double chin.

She was of medium height, I guessed her at 5'5", and a little plump. The word "matronly" probably fits Estelle better than any other woman I ever knew personally.

I deliberately looked her up and down and liked that she stood still. She didn't fidget or act like she didn't like being looked at or say anything silly like, "Take a picture, David, it lasts longer." She just stood, casual, with good posture, meeting my gaze. I finished at her shoes, liking the way her plump calves gave her a moderate set of "cankles" as I had heard legs like that described in some old sitcom or other. You know, women's legs where accumulated fat cells make her calves kind of a tube all the way down to her feet, giving her very thick ankles, with cankles as a portmanteu of "calves and ankles."

Anyway, I liked her legs.

I liked the way the top two buttons of her blouse were undone. Not the sexy display that would have been the case if that third button was undone, but a casual display of some of that pink skin, just a hint of cleavage, and a nice frame for that necklace.

When I met her eyes, she was smiling.

"Well, do I pass inspection?" she asked.

I flashed my best boyish grin and said, "Oh yeah."

She giggled.

"Whatcha got there, Buster?" she asked, pointedly looking down at the box in my hand.

"Flowers, and if you'll allow me, I'll pin them on," I said.

"Oh, Dear," she said, "you'd better come on in then. I wouldn't want the neighbors to have a stroke."

Her house was about what you'd expect. The predominant color was beige, the contractor's choice no doubt, something neutral to help sell the house. It looked to me like she had gone to Rooms to Go or one of those big box furniture stores and bought furniture and artwork by the room set. It had that sort of generic look. I figured in ten years it would be full of woman stuff, but for now it could be photographed for an advertising spread.

She turned to face me.

Up close, she was even prettier.

"Now don't you stick me," she said, smiling.

I got the corsage out and very carefully worked my fingers inside the top of her blouse to hold tension where I would be putting the pin to hold the flowers in place. Her skin, where my knuckles brushed, was just as soft and warm as I'd hoped.

And the flower worked. I got lucky with the colors, of course, but the colors of the flowers set off her eyes and that wonderfully pink skin.

"I'm trying," she said, the smile making those tiny wrinkles around her eyes seem to tighten almost like the skin of a woman's areola, "to remember the last time someone brought me flowers."

I smiled back, I couldn't help it, and said, "I'll bring you flowers every time."

"Be careful, David," she said, "I'll hold you to that."

I just grinned and caught her hand in mine.

"Come on, Blind Date," I said, "The reservation is for 7:30, and we're going to be pushing it."

The restaurant, a place called Pagliacci's, if you care, was in the city's Little Italy. My first date when I came to town and started college had suggested it, and it has been my regular first-date treat since. Outside, it was just another storefront in a commercial strip. Inside, it was like a set from The Godfather with a dozen tables, all four-tops, chrome tube chairs with red cushions, red and white checkered tablecloths, and wax-dripping-coated wine bottles as candleholders.

Dinner was the Lasagna for her and Chicken Alfredo for me accompanied by breadsticks so hard they could be used as weapons and the house Chianti, wine so dry and strong that if you got a bottle by mistake and didn't like it you could use it as paint remover.

The food, as always, was excellent, but the conversation was even better.

One of the things I enjoy about mature women, and Estelle was the oldest woman I ever shared a dinner date with, is hearing about things as living memories that I have only read about. I'm a history major, and stories like "I remember when the first oil embargo hit. I went to bed and gas was thirty-five cents a gallon and when I got up it was a buck and a quarter," make it real.

And she had a lot of stories.

She had missed "duck and cover" drills, but told me of her first car, a 1963 Chevrolet, with an AM radio and the little triangle-in-a-circle symbols at 640 and 1240, the Conelrad (she pronounced it "kahnuhlrad," different from the "Cone Rad" I had used since I first saw it written) stations, and how her dad had laughed while she figured out how to get moving on a big empty parking lot by operating a gas pedal, brake pedal, and clutch pedal ("WITH ONLY TWO FEET" she said, making me laugh) and the three-on-the-tree stick shift.

She talked of the 70s, especially, as a teenager, too young to be a hippy or go to the protests but not too young for the pot that was so available.

She told me, casually, watching my face as she talked, of barely remembering losing her virginity because she had been so stoned that night.

It was that kind of rambling conversation, much more intimate than the "normal" getting-to-know-you-on-the-first-date dinner conversation. I guess, when you get pimped by your grandson there's a certain level of openness. At one point, for example, she asked, with no transition, "When did you get rid of your virginity," a formulation I found interesting since usually you talk in terms of "losing" your virginity.

So I told her of Mrs. Donovan, the 84-year-old who set my tastes.

Her eyes were shiny as she listened.

I laughed and said, "Okay, enough exploring my sordid past."

"I don't find it sordid at all," she said, and I wondered if the smile she flashed then was as well practiced as my best boyish grin.

After dinner, she had me put the top down and sang along with the golden oldies playlist on the stereo.

She was giving me turn-by-turn directions, and I realized we were heading generally in the direction of Happy Village.

I got lost, at night, in the curving streets of this city-within-a-city.

"Right here," she said, and I pulled into a parking lot.

I followed a few more directions and parked. I took the few seconds needed to get the top up and sealed, then ran around to open the door and hold her hand as she got out of the car.

The place had a discrete neon sign reading The Office, and I laughed. You know the old joke, right? "I'm going to open a bar and name it 'The Office' so husbands won't have to lie when they say 'I'm staying late at the office.'" Apparently, someone had taken the joke seriously.

It was a bar, like any of a dozen we've all been in. Booths lined one wall, a bar lined the other, and a few hubcap-sized tables were scattered around. At the back of the room, a small stage held a standard four-piece band, two guitars, a bass, and a drum kit, with a four-piece band playing oldies at a volume that allowed conversation.

I realized she was, if not a regular at least known in this watering hole, the way she exchanged nods and words as we made our way to a table. I also realized she was a bit of an exhibitionist and was enjoying showing her young date the way she held onto my arm with both hands in that way some women do to show she's part of a couple.

I seated her at one of the tiny tables and was surprised when a waitress appeared.

"A pitcher?" the waitress asked Estelle, all but ignoring me.

"With pretzels, please," Estelle said.

We sipped and munched and chatted some more.

When the band started a passable version of Elvis Presley's Hawaiin Wedding Song, I stood and offered my hand, an invitation to dance.

For just an instant, her perfect smile made her beautiful as she stood.

I led her to the floor, laid my right hand on her hip, and held my left out in the classic slow dance position. She put her right hand in my left, her left hand on my shoulder, and held my eyes, smiling.

I waited a few seconds to catch the beat and then stepped off into a simple box step.

After the first few steps, we picked up each other's patterns and danced well together.

I looked around in that way you do when you're dancing, and it hit me that I was easily the youngest person in the place. I thought she was probably showing me off a bit to this group of her peers.

The lead singer hit that final note, and then the band moved immediately into Unchained Melody, an even slower number.

On the first step, she released my hand and put both hands around my neck, moving closer like we were high school kids at the prom. My own hands moved to her back, low, right where the roundness of her ass emerged from her body.

"Just so you know," she said, her lips almost touching my ear, "I do NOT intend to sleep alone tonight. So, if you're not interested, let me know. I'm pretty sure I can find some action in this place."

I leaned back and flashed The Grin.

"Prove it," I said.

That caught her off guard enough that she missed a step, and we giggled as we took a couple of those stumbling steps you do when your feet get tangled up while dancing.

"What do you have in mind?" she asked, still giggling a little as we settled back into the dance.

"Welllllllll," I started, deliberately drawing the alveolar lateral approximant "L" sound out for dramatic effect, "when the dance is over, you could go into the Ladies' room and when you come back give me your panties."

She didn't miss a beat.

"And just what makes you think I have panties on?" she asked.

I laughed and said, "I'll settle for your bra" as I traced up her back and pressed lightly on the hooks of her bra.

She looked at me speculatively for a few seconds and then laid her cheek on my chest.

She felt good in my hands. I could feel the mature body under my fingers, that soft layer of fat of a woman who has given birth, just a hint of a waistline remaining, and that slight bulge at the bra where it fit tightly.

I liked it.

It was SO much more interesting than the few girls my own age I had dated as to beggar comparison.

As the music wound down, the lead singer actually hitting that difficult final note on the final line, "God speed your love to me." She smiled and said, "Be right back."

I watched her walk away.

When you're a gerontophile, you notice things. I noticed a hint of favoring her right leg, not a limp, just a barely perceptible hitch in her gait. The ankle on that leg was slightly bigger than on the other. I assumed it was arthritis, and I wondered if I would find a knee replacement scar later.

Her ass moved in an interesting small figure eight.

I liked it.

Back at the table, I had some time to just look around.

This was definitely a local club for a gated community where pretty much every person had a Medicare card. Women outnumbered men, bringing home the reality of the observation from a sociology class I had taken, that women outlived men pretty dramatically. As I looked around, four different women met my eyes with what was clearly a smile of invitation.

"This, my friend, is truly a target-rich environment," I said to myself, returning the smile from an enormously fat and absolutely beautiful woman with hair so black it had to be a dye job.

"Eyes back in your head, David," she said, moving up behind me.

I liked that she blushed a little as she held out her hand.

I took the panties from her, a wrinkled ball of warm material. I didn't do anything to deliberately embarrass her, although I did think about shaking them out and holding them up to the light for inspection.

But I didn't.

Instead, I just took my closed fist to my lips, inhaled deeply catching her faint womanscent, and smiled as I put them into my pocket.

"Well," she said, taking a sip from her beer, "at least you didn't run screaming from the room."

I flashed The Grin.

"No bra?" I asked.

She held my eyes for a long ten-count and then, without a word, stood and walked back toward the Ladies' room.

I was surprised, but then again, the ways of mature women, especially those who have entered the realm of sexual disinhibition, have always been a bit of a mystery to me.

She was back in less than a minute.

This time, the top four buttons of her blouse were unbuttoned, and she swayed in interesting ways as she approached. She stopped by the table, smiled, and handed me her bra.

Estelle is a big woman, not huge or obese, but no one would call her slender. Hell, I doubted if anyone had ever called her slender. She looked like one of those plus-size girls who had blossomed early, and I could picture her being teased as she wore her C cup bra to seventh grade.

She was heavy-chested. Again, not huge, not one of those freaks you see if you Google "macromastia porn." But she was a big woman, and when I took the bra, found the tag, and took my time, inspecting it as she stood there, I read Shapermint 40DD. She stood as I took my time, surprised that there was no underwire as I folded it, and it joined her panties in my pocket.

"Anything else?" she asked.

"Pantyhose or a garter belt and nylons?" I asked.

She smiled, that delightful smile that reached her eyes and her forehead.

"I'm an old-fashioned girl," she said.

I toyed with the idea of asking for the nylons and garter belt, and I'm pretty sure she would have headed back to the bathroom, but I figured I had pushed this far enough. The thing is, I liked this woman and didn't want to just test her limits. I thought I wanted more than just a hook-up.

I stood and held her chair, seating her like a gentleman.

We finished the beer and the pretzels, dancing a couple more dances, including a pretty good jive, I thought, as the band did a good version of La Bamba with the lead singer rolling his Rs like a native Spanish speaker.

"How far are we from your house?" I asked.

"Why?" she asked.

"You know," I said, smiling, "one of the women in my checkered past would spank me for answering a question with a question."

She smiled then, the only word that fits the look on her face at that point was "impish."

"Now, why would she do that?" she asked.

I laughed and held up my hands, palm out, surrendering.

"The reason I ask," I said, grinning, "is to figure out whether we need to call an Uber or not. I've had enough to drink that I don't want to brave traffic, but if it's just a few blocks on these quiet streets, I'll drive."

"You can drive," she said and then showed me her version of The Grin, plenty of teeth in it, "and we'll put the top down."

"Okay," I said, "drink up."

I matched deed to word and finished my beer.

She smiled and finished hers, putting the mug down with a chark knock and emphasizing that she was done with a small, ladylike burp. She giggled and added, "'scuse me."

I signed the bar tab, added a 25 percent tip, and took Estelle's hand as we walked across the parking lot.

At the car, she smiled, looked around, giggled, and tugged her blouse free of her skirt where it was tucked in. She held my eyes as she unbuttoned the last three buttons and then shrugged out of it.

Okay, I stared.

Her breasts were big, that 40DD bra a legitimate fit. More importantly, they were full. Her areolas were only visible because of the texture of the erectile tissue in the dim light. Her nipples were hard buttons, standing proud at the peak of the cone formed by her tight areolas. Oh, she'd never pass the pencil test. Hell, I doubted if she could pass that test when they first came in.

They were GREAT tits.

"I always wanted to be topless in a convertible," she said, smiling.

"Well, your wish is my command," I said, opening the door for her and then holding her hand as she got in.

I worked the latches, pushed the button, and watched while the electric motor whined and the top folded back.

In that instant, she looked like the high school cheerleader I figured she might have been, getting ready to head for lover's lane with the running back.

I took a second, called up Google Maps, and put my cell phone in its little holder.

The stereo was on, oldies playing, and as I started driving, Estelle started singing along with Lesley Gore's version of You Don't Own Me.

The blue line told me I was only three blocks from her house, but this was too much fun to hurry, so I made a left where the line said right and drove a little under the 30 miles per hour speed limit

She was enjoying herself, and I was enjoying her.

Eventually, after listening to her sing along with Ricky Nelson (Traveling Man), the Kingston Trio (Tom Dooley), and the Beatles (This Boy), we got to her house.

I liked, very much, that she just walked the little sidewalk to her front door. She didn't try to cover up or hunch over to make herself smaller. She was the epitome of a woman grown and unashamed of her sexuality.

Inside, she turned to me, smiling, and said, "I'm feeling nice tonight, David, so if you don't want to stay, I'm giving you permission to leave, no questions asked and no hard feelings."

I held her gaze then, understanding right then what the poet meant when he said the eyes are the windows to a soul. I was looking deep into her, and I knew somehow, way down at that level, at the brain stem, where it's all instinct, that I needed to win this round.

So I held her gaze, not saying anything, just meeting her eyes.

I didn't put a stopwatch on it, but it felt like a very long time before she dropped her eyes.

As soon as she did that, I took the step to close the distance between us, did the two-fingers-under-the-chin thing my cousin taught me, and pulled her up to meet my eyes again.

"If you want me to leave, Estelle," I said, smiling, "tell me. Otherwise, I think I'm moving in."

She giggled at that, and I cut the giggle short with a kiss.

My hands found her back, and it was as soft and warm as I'd imagined.

The kiss was good, too. I'm taller enough than Estelle, that she has to bend her neck to meet my lips. Her hair was stiff with the hairspray or mousse or whatever product she used to keep it looking so neat as I dug the fingers of my right hand into it. My left hand was exploring her back, finding her soft and warm and inviting.

Her hands were on my back too, caressing easily and then digging deeper as her excitement grew.

"Oh my," she breathed, taking a step back and reaching for the top button of my shirt.

I caught her hand.

"No, Estelle," I said, "the first time is always for the lady. I'll do the work."

Her smile was angelic.

"God," she said softly, "What did I do to deserve you?"

"You said 'yes,'" I said, just as softly, taking her hand, "Now lead me to your bedroom."

Her house, like all of them I had noticed in Happy Village, was on one story. She led me down a short hall.

Her bedroom surprised me. I had expected lace and pinkness everywhere. Instead, it was neutral, brown and beige with the sort of art and accessories that made me think she had pretty much accepted the recommendations of some decorator.

But I wasn't here to evaluate her taste in interior design.

I found the button of her skirt, unbuttoned and unzipped, and then let it fall to pool at her feet.

I had been right, it turned out. It was a garter belt and nylons, not pantyhose.

I kissed her, a light brush of lips, bent and kissed each breast, and eased to my knees to finish undressing her.

I took her feet into my lap, forcing her to put her hands on my shoulders for balance, and got her shoes off. Then I did the keyhole-shaped wire and raised button suspender straps, two per leg, and freed her nylons, which I carefully rolled down and off.

Finally, I worked the belt down and let it drop, joining the skirt on the floor at her feet.

And I leaned back and just looked.

Christ, she was the essence of woman come to life. She was smiling, her face pretty, as she looked down at me. I looked across the roundness of her belly, noting the perfectly circular hole that marked her deep innie belly button, the slight muffin top low on her belly, and the hint of chub rub at the fork of her legs.

From this position, the round mound of her mons Veneris, that beautiful Mound of Venus that marks the entrance to every woman's sex, was about a foot from my eyes.

I looked. Hell, I couldn't look away.

Her pubic hair was very pale, very straight, very silky, and very long. It was wet, darkened where it lay against the tops of her thighs, showing her excitement.

Her womanscent hit me like the strongest, best perfume ever made.

I leaned forward and kissed that silky hair, drawing a little gasp from her.

It became a good, old-fashioned American blow job after that. She did a half side step, her feet a little over shoulder-width apart, offering herself.

I accepted the offer.

I buried my face between her legs, inhaling that sweet perfume and probing and tasting with my tongue.

"Oh, Jesus," she said, softly, her fingers entwining in my hair.

She was pretty hair-triggered. I had barely started when she cried a high-pitched "Eeeeeeee" sound, almost a whistle, and my mouth was full of her hot, thick, sticky, salty nectar.

I held her to me, my face buried between her legs, keeping a light suction going, drinking her pleasure like fine wine.

The tension finally left her body, and I released her, looking up over the rise of her mons, her belly, and her breasts, smiling.

"Oh my," she breathed, "thank you."

"Oh, Honey," I said, The Grin on my face, "I'm not even started."