Make an Old Man Happy Ch. 01

My competitors call me an 'order taker'. My friends say I am a salesman.

"One of a dying breed," they say. They are correct. Telephone soliciting has a bad name and pop-up ads on the internet are so annoying! Car dealers' ads on TV are so patently misleading they are an embarrassment to the public's sensitivities. Gypsies, tramps and thieves. Not me: I have scruples.

For the last few years, I have made a pretty good living going door-to-door, selling. Presently, it is women's wearing apparel. Salesmen live by the rules of nine's and three's. For every nine homes we visit, three people are home. Of those three, we usually get one person of the three to actually focus on our product enough to listen more than ten seconds.

That ten seconds is all we have. On that third one, I make a sale. It is worth it.

For that 'lucky' one of three, the routine seldom changes. First, appear harmless. Don't crowd the doorway. Announce that you are taking orders (in my case, for women's clothes) and would the lady mind accepting a catalog?

"Oh, no mam. I am not asking to come inside your home. I can leave the booklet with you to review and if you are interested, you can call me back. Or, if you wish, I will wait here for a few moments while you skim the material.

My company's information is on the back, with local and national numbers. Feel free to call the office; my name and office number are right there."

In a minute or two, the door will open again. Either I will be invited in or thanked for my time. Odds now were in my favor.

I got lucky. "Come in. Please excuse the mess but I was not expecting company."

"Not a problem. Did you see anything in particular that you liked." We sat and she thumbed the brochure.

"Just fold down a corner if you have any questions."

I sat and looked around. Thirty-ish, thin, five foot three, 34 top (nice pyramid, perky tits, albeit a bit small), obviously married. Blonde hair. T-shirt was brand new, pulled fresh a drawer and not the one she had on five minutes ago. Braless. Cutoff jeans exposed a lot of leg. Furniture due for replacement. Incense burned in another room: at this time of day, that meant she smoked weed and used frankincense as a thin disguise.

"My husband is going to be furious if I buy anything and waste more money. He is such a tight-fisted jerk. I am sorry that I ever said I would marry him. His ex-wife called me on my wedding day, telling me to run away. I should have listened."

"Oh?"

"It's not important. This is not the life I had planned. I was going to be a dancer. I had an academic scholarship, but turned it down when I met Scott.

He's been out of work and just got back on at the factory."

I was ready to leave, (NO SALE!) but she persisted, looking at the models and clothes from the more fashionable sections. She picked out a few things. This lady has, or had, money at one time. She moved like royalty.

"I have some money saved up Scotty doesn't know about. I need some new outfits and our computer is broken. I don't have a car, so this is the only way I am going to be able to buy anything."

I moved to beside her on the couch and caught a whiff of perfume, freshly applied. We perused the merchandise together, comparing notes on fabrics, upcoming seasonal colors, what matching accessories/jewelry she already had. At one point, she brought me into the bedroom, to show me a few things she already had.

I am not gay. People might think that, because I have an eye for fashion, I am homosexual. I am just as horny as any other divorced guy pushing sixty, looking for sexual liaisons where they might be found.

We completed the order. I rose and stood in the hallway. Two bedrooms, one bath, a kitchen and an unattached garage. Mrs. Mandy Jones had a way of walking purposefully. She was going to do this: spend some money.

The total came to just under $900.00. Cash or credit card? Scott held all the cards.

Would I take a check? Yes, but with a stipulation. I will collect when I deliver this time next week. I will need a voided check, so that my company can verify your account information."

She assured me, "The check is from my night school expense account, paid for by my parents."

I took the voided check.

"I will be back in a week with your order. No shipping or handling charges. One more thing: for any person you can refer, I will knock off five percent of the total.

Give me two names, addresses and phone numbers, take off ten percent. You will have a week to check with your friends, neighbors, church members to make sure it is OK to give me their numbers. "

The allotted seven days gave me time to check her out, via her SSN. Married to Scott: he has two boys living with ex-wife; Mandy was just twenty-six. Scott, 36, always rented. They'd been here less than a year. Hoopty car completed the dim prospects. Credit rating in the pits.

One week later.

She held the door and I stumbled in with three large shopping bags containing her loot.

I started out brightly, "I am sorry that Scott is not here. But I am sure he is going to like what we picked out."

"Don't be so sure." She told me that she was so excited to finally get some new clothes. She had been bubbling over, trying to keep the new clothes a surprise until the right moment. She wanted tell him her the news, but Scott ended up getting drunk.

"He went out and came back at dawn smelling of cheap perfume. He had to be at work at 8 that morning and was late. He may not keep his job."

Mandy and Scott argued about money again this morning. Obviously, this was not a happy home.

"One reason I need these new clothes is that I am going to leave him, maybe tonight. He is working a long shift and won't be back until 3 am. I may not be here.

I have some money, but I need these clothes to stop looking like trailer trash.

I told her, "We chose some good outfits. I don't want to get into your business, but the items you chose can be coordinated in a dozen ways. Let's get going."

Mandy had put on make-up and had worn her hair in a cute, (fresh?) cut. I suggested she try on her new clothes. I pulled out a set and asked her to try it on before I left. I had placed a frilly pair of panties in the stack as well. She caught that immediately.

"Oh, Mrs. Jones, Mandy. Those are complimentary to keep; if something doesn't fit, we can return it good as new and you keep the underwear."

The outfits were perfect.

"Now, did you get me any leads?"

She said, "Yes. My pastor's wife and my mom both said they would like to see your line of more expensive clothing." I took the slips of paper and put them in my briefcase.

Great! Names, addresses, phone numbers and e-mail addresses. This would make guarantee I meet my quota for a month.

Now the hook. I suggested to her, "That last outfit fitted you perfectly. My manager lets me take off ten percent if I can take a picture of you in the ensemble: I can crop your face or let everyone see that new 'do' of yours surrounding that angelic pose."

She agreed and we shot dozens of photos rather quickly. It got so busy with the multiple wardrobe changes that I just went into the bedroom and helped her on and off with the clothes.

"You seem a bit tense. Is everything OK?"

She replied, "I am tense. I have never been a model before. You have seen me almost naked. My marriage is falling apart. I need to find a new place to live and a job, quickly! I may leave this place tonight."

"I understand. When I get tense, I use my own special relaxer. Maybe you are familiar with it?"

I pulled out one of my perfectly-rolled doobies. Perfectly predictable faux surprise always comes next.

"I know you guys smoke weed. I could smell it last week and I bet this isn't your first smoke of the day."

She took the joint, inhaled deeply, held it as long as that beautiful chest could, and exhaled.

I handed her the package with the matching bra-and-panty sets.

"Let's do it. I feel naughty today."

More smoke. More coaxing. More skin.

Mandy surprised me. She made the first openly sexual move. She tried on a sexy push-up bra and rummaged through the bag for a pair of panties. She chose the crotch-less ones!

"These ought to look good on me. I shaved my pussy this morning for Scott, but I guess he wasn't interested."

She turned away from me and bent over, touching her fingers to the carpet, then gripping her heels."

Oh, to be that nimble, I thought. Maybe she wasn't exaggerating when she said she was a dancer?

"I am going to wet my fingers and rub those pussy lips you have sticking out there, young lady."

"Go ahead."

Her labia were already getting pink. She jumped when my fingertips caressed those gentle folds.

While I sat on the chair, Mandy backed up, until I could reach out and inhale her scents. Such youth, such beauty, such an opportunity. I kissed her pussy lips and pulled on the outside layers. Holding her hips with both hands, I could move her pussy back and forth on my tongue.

"Scott won't do that. He says that I ruined it for him when I told him I wasn't a virgin."

I told her, "He's a fool. One that may lose a wife soon." I reached up her torso and grabbed her tits. So petite, so perky. I pulled both at one time and squeezed her nipples.

Mandy jerked her pussy on my face like she was fucking it. That girl has real power in her hips. I had her hood up and was licking her clit. We knew she couldn't last much longer.

She led me to the bedroom and pushed me onto the foot of the bed. She knelt down, untied my shoes and slipped them off, pulled off my socks. I undid my belt, slipped off my shirt and pants.

Blow jobs are great. The mantra in my day was, "The worst I ever had was wonderful." Mandy didn't just suck me off. She attacked my dick with her whole body. She took my tool in her hand and placed it between her tits. As I pushed forward, she pushed her tits together, creating a friction to oil with her saliva.

My dick is a little more than average in length and girth, but she took it all, way down to my balls.

"Look at me when you suck my dick." I ordered her. The effect was magical: she began to feign nervousness or maybe the fear was real, but she transformed herself into a helpless waif who must obey her master. She never took her eyes off mine, even as she worked her mouth up and down on my shaft.

She aimed to please. When she had my dick almost out of her mouth, with the rim of my bulb just inside her lips, she circled the head with her tongue. It seemed that her whole life, up until this point, was dedicated to making me cum now.

I took advantage of the situation. I grabbed her hair, squeezed a knot of it and used it as a head-handle to fuck her face.

"More? You want more, don't you, you slut?"

Eager nodding.

There comes a time when sticking your dick into a pussy is not the thing a man wants to do. What he needs, beyond anything else in the world, is the immediate release his urinary tract sphincter muscles and let the flood of cum spew forth. I did.

Despite being on this earth a long time and having as much sex as the next guy, I still marvel at women who are satisfied with getting a partner off. Mandy got up, wiped the excess cum from her face and made no move or comment about immediate reciprocation. That was OK with me. She went to the bathroom.

Despite her messaging me that she was fine without herself coming, I promised myself she would be screaming before the sun set.

She had just finished pissing when I came uninvited into her bathroom. She looked at me, gave a half smile.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

She replied from the toilet seat, "You are welcome."

"Yes, I am welcome, welcome to that sweet body of yours. I am going to take advantage of that underused cunt of yours."

I had to finish off her feelings of self-esteem. I wanted to build her up again, stronger and more confident, and without a loser husband.

I stepped forward and said, "Open your legs and show me your pussy." She did and I let loose a thick stream of yellow urine.

Mandy yelped when it splashed right back onto her bottom.

"No!"

"Yes. You need this."

I let the stream wander to those beautiful thighs and soaked them. I didn't give a shit that I was spilling onto the floor.

Next, her gorgeous bare tits and just a bit for her face."

"Clean up," I said. "I'll be in your bed waiting for you."