Mrs. Tenholder Loses It

I still can't remember when this twisted little project first took hold. I think it might have been early last spring. I run an Internet-based business out of a home office in a pleasant old neighborhood downtown. I moved in a year ago and business is good. I have lots of free time and can pretty much plan my schedule any way I want.

I was wearing an old t-shirt and shorts after returning from a late morning run. My hands were on my hips, and I was taking deep gasps of air to cool down when I looked up to see Mrs. Tenholder bending over a flower bed, carefully removing the winter pansies and replacing them with pretty pink petunias. She lived two doors down from me and would wave to me from time to time but I never really spoke to her face to face.

She was wearing a long skirt which hid generous but attractive hips and narrowed down to a very girlish waist. She wore a simple yellow blouse buttoned up the front and a wide hat with a big straw flower dangling off one edge. I guess it was her ass wagging to and fro as she pulled up the old plants and replaced them with the petunias that go my attention. Nice calves sticking out of the old-lady dress. A little thick, but nice. It was when she turned around to my "good morning" greeting that she won me over and I started my project in earnest.

"I like flowers," I said to her. "I like the smells, the colors and even the weeding. I guess it's time to start on my own yard."

It was her bright blue eyes that got to me. So pretty, so kind and so friendly. I managed a quick look at her chest and saw that she was wearing a sensible bra that jutted out memorably and shaded the little belly that only added to her grandmotherly image. I was smitten.

"I am late getting started this year," she said. "Getting old, I guess. Still, I love them. These flowers will see me through the summer."

Mrs. Tenholder was startled to see me and her gaze fell upon my bare legs. She blushed so easily and so quickly that I felt sorry for her discomfort but she carried on like a trooper. She had poise; I'll give her that.

She walked toward me, pulled off a gardening glove and stuck out a wrinkled but delicate hand. "I'm Gretchen Tenholder," she said. "And I apologize for not introducing myself earlier. I used to bring a casserole or a pie to new neighbors. I guess no one does that much anymore."

"I've met a few of the neighbors," I said, looking even more deeply into those bright blue eyes, shaded by her hat. "They had a party last 4th of July and invited me. I enjoyed meeting everyone. My name is John. Glad to meet you."

She laughed. It was a nice laugh -- not too boisterous as to be irritating, but loud and genuine. "They invited me too. That was nice of them but I can't handle . . ."

"The fireworks!" we both said together, then laughed. I knew what she was going to say and while I don't care one way or the other about fireworks, I thought it would build a bridge between me and Gretchen Tenholder. It worked. To my surprise, she smiled and blushed again

I guess," she said, smiling again and cocking her head in a fetching manner, "that's we're just flower people."

We talked for a few more minutes about flowers and the neighborhood and taxes and insurance and . . . but I was checking out Mrs. Tenholder. I could see, when she wasn't smiling, blushing or speaking, that she was older than I would have thought -- at least 70. She was a beautiful person, if not the most attractive woman I've ever met. She had a way of reaching out and almost touching my arm when she wanted to make a point, as though she wanted to suggest the intimacy of a touch without actually, well, touching.

One of her front teeth was a little crooked which sometimes resulted in a slight lisp when she said some words. I could see a little bare flesh above her bra through the thin yellow shirt and she must have noticed my peeking because she half-covered herself with a free hand from time to time so I stopped looking and stared instead into those warm blue eyes while we spoke. She didn't seem uncomfortable after that but she might have if she could have read my mind.

All I could think of was wrapping my arms around her naked waist, squeezing her fat ass and pressing my wet mouth against that slight protuberance of a belly. I knew I had been spending too much time on my business but I was somewhat shocked at the depth of my carnal feelings toward this sweet old woman. It wasn't long during our conversations before I realized that skimpy gym trunks weren't the best attire when harboring such thoughts so I made some excuses, went home and jerked off profusely to a vision of Gretchen Tenholder's floppy old tits sandwiching my hard cock while I looked into those lovely blue eyes.

"Here," she said politely but firmly a few days later. "Maybe folks don't bring casseroles to new neighbors any more but I thought you would like these." She handed me a full flat of blue and yellow petunias that would last all summer and complement my house color. And that's the way she was: practical and giving.

"Well . . ." she said as she dusted off her hands and prepared to move off.

I gave her a warm, open smile, one that I truly felt. "That was so kind of you," I said. "And so thoughtful. Thank you. Thank you very much." And I touched her bare arm which was warm and firmer than I would have expected. "Please, come in."

I waved off her protestations about being dirty. "It's the least I can do," I said.

I remember that first visit pretty well. She sat down on the edge of my sofa as though she was afraid of being asked to leave at any moment. We spoke of inconsequential things -- the neighbors, the summer, the mosquito problem this year -- and she smiled often. A pretty smile and her bright blue eyes would flash when she laughed, which was often.

She tapped my arm. "We're so lucky to have you in the neighborhood," she said. "The last family who lived here . . ." she shivered, then laughed again. "Well, I'm just glad you're here and they're gone!"

"You don't look like a Gretchen," I said, smirking just a little.

"No?" and she pursed her lips in the cutest way. "And just who do I look like?"

"Maybe a Lois," I offered. "Or a Barbara. Not Gretchen, though."

She was feeling more comfortable and she crossed her legs and leaned forward. "My sister's name is Barbara. I'm serious!" She was quiet for a moment and looked at me carefully. "I think we're going to get along just fine."

And she was right. As time went on we spoke more freely and more often. I learned she had been widowed almost 18 years now. There were two children who lived across the country and visited about twice a year or when they were passing through on business. There were 3 grandchildren whom she adored. She had some woman friends but pretty much kept to herself. A nice lady. A sweet lady.

My initial lust was replaced with genuine affection and even protectiveness. When a security alarm salesman started harassing her, I stepped in and told him to go away and stay away. Then I hung a "No Solicitors" sign on her door. She hugged me after that.

We took to hugging pretty regularly, usually when first meeting and when parting. I replaced a washer on her kitchen sink, took some books up to the attic, reset a few nails that had popped up and then there was the time I fixed a bad sprinkler head.

I was coming back on the last leg on my morning run when Gretchen came out to the street. "John, John," she said. She seemed a little frantic. "I need your help to fix something. I'm just too clumsy or stupid, or both. Hurry!"

She unashamedly took my sweaty hand and pulled me into the back yard where a veritable water fountain was shooting up from one of her sprinkler heads. She had come from the house hurriedly and was only wearing a loose cotton robe over her nightclothes. That's when I saw the tops of two gorgeous tits swaying and bouncing like saddle bags on a bucking horse. She was so concerned about the waterfall that she didn't pay the usual close attention to how she looked.

She held a hand to her mouth. "It's going to wash out all my tomato plants. Can you do something?"

I smiled and, at that moment, she realized she was "on display" and quickly closed her robe and blushed immediately, then regained her normal color in an instant. It was at that moment -- and I've thought about this over the last few months -- it was that very moment when I knew I had to have her. Or try to have her.

Oh, sure, I still liked her. I liked her a lot. But from then on she was no longer Gretchen Tenholder, neighbor, friend, nice lady but rather, Gretchen Tenholder, prospective fuck buddy. With this intention in mind and instincts honed from hundreds of generations of men seeking to seduce women against their will, I walked over the spurting sprinkler and felt the cool whoosh of water pummeling my crotch until my jogging shorts were soaking and there was little left to the imagination of anyone watching.

Fortunately for me, the only one watching was Gretchen Tenholder. I stood up and smiled at her again as though I were unaware that my semi-hardened cock was clearly visible through my jogging shorts. I looked into her eyes and they were staring at the display and just a beat longer than absolutely necessary to satisfy an honest curiosity.

When I looked down, I pretended to cover myself (but not very well) and Gretchen immediately flushed again and turned away, then started laughing in embarrassment or the ridiculousness of my situation, or both. She laughed some more, then waved a hand back at me and ran into the house where she stood inside for a moment, looked at me again, shook her head while laughing, then went inside.

I replaced the sprinkler head, dried myself off as best I could, then went home and jerked off in such a spasm of orgiastic delight that I damn near blacked out for a moment. Thank you, Gretchen Tenholder.

And, no, that most assuredly did not end our relationship. If anything, we grew closer than ever. And that was fine with me. I would suggest movies she might enjoy. I gave her books to read (Gretchen was inexplicably a student of early American frontier stories). I circled magazine articles and left them at her door.

In the summer I sometimes stopped at her house with a beer and we would sit on the front porch, talking about this and that while she had a small glass of Chablis. At these times she would often wear knee-length shorts and a comfortable blouse or pullover t-shirt. I kept looking for any sign of weakening such as no bra, an extra button undone on her blouse, anything. But no.

The only thing I did notice is that she began painting her toe nails. I didn't remember painted toe nails when we first met and the fact the she would often stretch out her not-unattractive legs so I could get a good look at her feet made me think --or hope -- that she did it for me.

"You have pretty feet," I offered once. I thought this was an innocent comment that might open discussion into other areas. As expected, she immediately withdrew her feet and blushed.

"Now why would you say something like that?" she asked in a mock-scolding tone.

"I don't know. Maybe I'm just a "feet" man."

She faked a mild 'harrumph' and smiled again. "In my experience there are leg men and boob men. I didn't know there were any 'feet' men."

It was a little surprising and a touch arousing to hear her say 'boob' so easily and comfortably, but I decided to go for it. "Okay, I'm a foot AND boob man. There, are you happy?"

Gretchen had a nice rack and since I had already complemented her feet, she must have recognized I was also paying homage to her tits as well. She unconsciously crossed her arms across her chest and I decided to play with her a little.

"Don't worry," I said. "You don't have to hide your treasures from me."

"Because I'm so old?"

"Because I'm a gentleman," I corrected her and I was rewarded with a rare treat. Gretchen both smiled and blushed at the same time, and threw in a twinkle of those bright blue eyes as well.

Have you seen the movie, "The Mother"? It starred Anne Reid and Daniel Craig and while it purports to tell the story of a woman discovering her true self and yadda-yadda-yadda, it's basically a tale of an old woman lusting after a man half her age. It's a good film but I had other purposes than artistic for bringing that DVD, a six-pack, and a bottle of Chablis over to Gretchen's house one Wednesday night.

It seemed a natural evolution in our "friendship" to watch movies together. Of course, I couldn't expect her to enjoy Bruce Willis, special effects shoot-em-up extravaganzas. Instead I chose something that used to be called a "woman's picture" and one that would not incidentally advance my own purposes as well.

"I hope I didn't make a mistake in bringing this movie," I said, faking a shy shrug.

"Lord, it's called 'The Mother' for crying out loud. How bad could it be?"

I smiled. Indeed. Gretchen sat down on the couch and I sat a respectable distance away on the same couch. I popped a cold one after pouring a cool glass of Chablis for my , what? date?

Mrs. Tenholder must have been thinking the same thing, bless her. "Are we on a date, Johnny?"

It was the first time she had called me the name my mother used to call me all the time, at least when I was younger. "Yes," I said. "I guess we are."

"Well, don't try to neck with me," she said using a term not heard much these days. Then she smiled at her little joke and -- because she just couldn't help herself, I guess -- she blushed again before the film started.

I thought seriously about sidling up to her. I could pretend it was a joke on the "date" theme, then stay there. I nixed the idea quickly, however. While it was a great opening, this was not really a "date" movie -- at least not in the traditional sense. I wanted to get Gretchen Tenholder thinking about younger men -- and me in particular -- as potential sexual partners. I didn't feel I could discuss the matter openly. There aren't a lot of books that would innocently probe the topic. She had to make the connection on her own. All I could do was steer her gently in my direction. The rest was up to her.

Although Anne Reid is a great actress, the film started slowly. Gretchen said she liked to watch movies in the dark so the lights were pretty dim in her living room. But I could still see her by the bare light of the TV screen.

I could see her face. It was a gentle, motherly face. I yearned to run a finger along her bare cheek. I never realized until now how full her lips were. Did she put on a little lipstick for our "date?" The light summer dress just covered her knees, ending above her full but not unattractive calves. Her legs were shaved. Nice.

She was a solid woman. Not fat, but no model figure either. She had her hands crossed in her lap and I could see a gentle bump that in a young woman would have looked like a pregnancy about 4-5 months along. It gave her a nice womanly shape, even as she was sitting there, hands in her lap, manicured nails (not painted, I noticed) and as my eyes moved up her body, I saw a discernible indentation of her waist. Without thinking I licked my lips as I saw myself with my arm wrapped around that waist. Would she laugh? Push me away?

She must have felt my looking at her. Briefly she turned to look at me looking at her but she turned back almost at once to the film.

Nice tits. Nice, grapefruit-sized grandma hooters carefully bundled up into a sensible bra. Sigh.

Gretchen liked sleeveless tops. Most old woman stay away from them because they exaggerate their flabby arms but Gretchen Tenholder's arms were not very saggy. She was no hard body, like I said, but she had firm arms that may have been a tad heavy but were not flabby at all. No, the advantage of the sleeveless dress was it provided an occasional peak into the magical world of Gretchen Tenholder's boobs.

It hadn't happened tonight but on other occasions I had stared into that armhole as she reached for her glass of wine to see vast areas of bra-covered tit-flesh and once, even a little glimpse of white belly. It was a potential amusement park of delights that I could only imagine. Was I getting any closer? I turned back to the movie.

Old mother Anne Reid was having designs on the handyman played by Daniel Craig. Gretchen seemed to be a little uneasy watching all this. Was she sexually excited or simply uncomfortable? Or both?

As the movie progressed I looked over at Gretchen. She normally sat very still but right now she was moving her leg a little more than usual and shifting her position further back into the couch from time to time. Before long -- in the movie -- the old woman and the young lover were in bed having wild and frantic sex and lots of skin was on display. I had seen the film before and had become quite aroused but right now I was more concerned about Gretchen Tenholder and how this was going over with her.

She stood up. "I'm sorry," she said as she reached over and flicked off the TV. "I wasn't expecting this. I'm pretty uncomfortable." She walked around to no place in particular and took a long pull on her glass of Chablis.

"I'm sorry, Gretchen." I was.

"I don't know what you were thinking." She wasn't smiling when she said this. "I'm almost 70 years old, for god's sake. I watch Lawrence Welk reruns. I've never seen anything quite like . . . like this."

I felt like a little boy who had been caught doing something naughty. And I felt about as UN-aroused as I could possibly be. "I won't make that mistake again, Gretchen. I'm really sorry."

She seemed genuinely disturbed and I knew that the flush in her cheeks was not the sweet innocence of a blush but a wave of anger and indignation. But then Gretchen -- being Gretchen -- couldn't stay angry. "It was sweet of you to want to watch a movie with me. It was just a bad choice, that's all. Good night, John." No kiss, though. No hug. Some date.

I walked out her front door and walked down to the corner store where I bought an ice cream sandwich that dripped all over my fingers as I ate it on the walk back home.

Except that I wasn't going home. That wasn't part of my plan. I don't like to pat myself on the back but I've got to admit that things with Gretchen went pretty much the way I figured. I was still smiling to myself as I ducked down behind some azaleas to look into her living room window where my DVD of "The Mother" that I had thoughtfully left behind was once again playing on her television.

There I saw my good buddy Gretchen Tenholder watching with real attention the seductions taking place in the movie. And even in the low light I could see a flush in Gretchen's cheeks that was not embarrassment and not anger and not indignation.

And I saw her lovely, manicured fingers almost absently toying with her breasts, touching her cleavage, then dropping again into her lap and the great mass of those glorious tits heaved as the film played on, the very breasts I hoped to be grazing on one day soon.

It was probably a week later that I saw Gretchen planting small begonias around the oak tree in front of her home. She was wearing a sun hat and shorts that seemed just a bit too tight as she bent over to tamp one of the red flowers into place. A nice, big ass. Too full to be fashionable but glorious just the same.

"Hey, beautiful," I said.

Gretchen Tenholder turned to look at me, surprised at first, then the warm smile and the flashing blue eyes became visible, even in the shade of her sun hat.

"Hi, yourself, stranger." She brushed the dirt off her hands. "When's our next date night?"

"I've got a movie I think you would really like. It's a surprise," I paused. "But I think it will be a good surprise this time, not like last week."

Gretchen blushed again and turned her head for a moment to consider her begonias, then she turned back to me with an uncharacteristic confidence in her manner. "Yes, well, I'm sorry about that. I guess . . . well, I guess I need to be more open to things. I can't watch Lawrence Welk forever," and she laughed that wonderful, open laugh of hers that sparkled in the sunshine like those cool, blue eyes.