Genie's Wish Ch. 01

At age 50, Jack's clock was rolled back by a wish-granting genie girl. Follow along as he pays it forward in his 20-year-old body.

In this episode, Jack explores his new "powers" - Should he use them for good or for awesome?

TAGS: Younger man, older woman, fingering, hairy pussy, titfuck, vaginal sex, wet pussy, hard cock, gigolo, flirting

I felt just a little slimy, realizing I had never been aware of what it was like to be impersonally objectified before. But I had a job to do, and would apply myself to it sincerely. I snickered silently to myself as I suddenly remembered a stroke-off fantasy I used to indulge decades earlier, and stepped into the client's condo to act it out for real. I had agreed to be tried out as Mrs. Dixie Tavenner's gigolo for the weekend, and she appraised me with unconcealed avarice as I came in the door.

I had been marketed to her as suavecito experience in a barely-legal package, and as I understood it, she was quite the connoiseuse of both boytoys and professionals. The try-out was for both of us, and for me, the stakes were high.

SIX DAYS EARLIER

What person gets to live the reality of "if I had only known then what I know now?"

I was a week and a half into that very reality. My driver's license says I'm a fifty year old, six-foot-even, buck-ninetyfive male, and the picture matches, but I had to figure out what to do about that because, as of the week before last, my face and body say I'm twenty again.

I mean. Woohoo?

Woohoo!

I couldn't see a downside, other than updating my identification. The picture and weight would be easy. I still didn't have any ideas what to do about the birthdate. Maybe nobody would notice? I was starting to form a plan. This is Florida, after all. Some of the best plastic surgeons in the world are here, and I was thinking I could find one and "reach an arrangement."

I'm also three months into a semi-retirement. Really, I should start talking about it more like a sabbatical or something. I couldn't go back to my old career because my ex-wife had been the partner in my consultant business. But, with this new lease on life, I didn't see why I couldn't start completely over and explore one or more new ones from the ground up. Besides, I still had a new-to-me sailboat and a cruising fund which I had meant to stretch for two years. After that, the original plan had been to go back to work and refill the retirement accounts my divorce had siphoned. It wasn't down to nothing, but still.

It wasn't lost on me that I probably had an extra thirty years now, though, to fatten that particular kitty back up again. For right now, paying myself to do the work on my boat myself would do just fine. I did want to get cruising again, but after a refit to do away with the things I hadn't liked about the previous owners' setup and make her my own. Over the phone, I had notified the boatyard that a nephew would be working on her for me and I was back in the office full-time. The nephew was me, of course, and the office was imaginary, but when I (re-) introduced myself to the administrative lady and the yard foreman, there wasn't a whiff of suspicion or confusion. Other than continuing to call myself Jack.

Livia seemed to think it was cute to call me Jack Junior. She insisted she had to, to keep herself straight between myself and my "uncle," who had paid for six weeks on the hard already, but didn't show up for the haul-out. I mean, I was there, but you know. I hardly ever saw her, but every time I did, "Jack Junior" it was.

I wasn't in any rush to get my bones jumped. I had had one lay since my divorce, and it was just incredible being a man-child again in that situation, but I'm mature enough to know that a lot of unspecial sex kind of ruins it. So, patience, patience. I also had practical priorities and didn't want to procrastinate them.

Still, my mind would drift now and then to how to tease Livia back. If she thought I was such a cutie pie, maybe she'd appreciate sometime a bit of playful come-back, and more. She was probably fifteen years my senior (or junior, depending which way you look at it), but looks-wise she could have been taken for no more than twenty-eight. Dark features, light complexion, mamacita curves, she must sunscreen religiously under the Florida sun. I mean, who wouldn't. It's the 21st century, we fucked the ozone a long time ago.

But, some still don't sunscreen, or, didn't get the memo in time. Florida can seem wall-to-wall sometimes with geezers whose skin made me shudder. I'd seen enough of them as I people-watched in the plaza. I know, it's America, we don't have plazas here. But this was Saint Augustine, the oldest city in the country.

I accidentally-not-accidentally dropped my keys as I walked by the cafe table of a particularly sculpted specimen, and was almost surprised that her "Hey! Young maaa-aaan!" had been able to escape between the masses of supplemental collagen in her lips. No, she was more than particular. Her work was spectacular, and not in a good way. I turned on the charm and, over her treat of coffee, I social-engineered her into giving me the name of the plastic surgeon who had been unscrupulous enough to go along with what I guess she had wanted done to herself.

The patter went along these lines: I elicited a compliment on my looks, and I wholesomely aw-shucksed and returned it to be polite. When she modestly protested and admitted to "a little work" when I played dumb, I naively insisted I couldn't believe her splendid looks weren't 100% natural. Then I just made up a story about a lifeguard buddy whose poor face had gone through a windshield.

I always pictured face-men as just that. Men. But Mrs. Keys-saver's doc turned out to be a lady.

Huh.

I made an appointment.

I improvised, I didn't go in there armed with a PI dossier on Dr. Vu - which I could have. I wasn't sure how much manipulation I would need to bring to bear, or what a background-check would cost. What I did bring was cash money. I showed her my passport and driver's license, and insisted it was me when she compared the pictures. "What in the world do you need me for, then?" she asked, eyeing my baby face incredulously.

I pulled out half a strap of bills folded over, and fanned out the fifty hundreds onto her consultation desk. I hoped it would be enough. "I need a paper trail."

She asked questions, I explained things. The state motor-vehicles administration would give me a hard time when I applied for a replacement driver's license if I didn't look like the guy in the old one's picture, and the federal Department of State needed an accurate state ID to process my passport replacement. With convincing clinic paperwork to document the change of appearance, I could get the license and with that I could get the new passport. People would then just have to believe the birthdate on the documents. I didn't think that would be a problem. I could always quit the Junior act and bring on the full gravitas of my fifty years of maturity, if anyone were to ever need convincing that I couldn't possibly be as young as I looked. I didn't expect it to be any issue very often, but I did need to get those ID's updated.

"Let me get back to you." The stack was deftly collected from the desk and I was excused.

Over the next couple of days, at the boatyard I removed some suboptimally located deck hardware and sealed the holes, and had the mast taken down so I could re-bed the chainplates, which had started leaking into the saloon on the sail home from Greece, where I had bought her.

When Dr. Vu did get back to me, it was direct - not through her office. She asked to meet at a hotel, of all places, and promised that an arrangement would be possible, pending negotiations. Damn, the five grand wasn't enough.

When I had gone to Virginia to visit my storage unit and fetch my car, I had had the presence of mind to pick up some non-boat clothes. So, I had slacks, a good shirt and good shoes to wear to the meeting. And they still fit, though the belt didn't have enough holes to take up around my slimmer waist. I made some measurements, clamped the belt between wood scraps so as not to shred it, and added two holes with a power drill. It came out fine and I applied just a whiff of Vaseline to dress the raw edges of the virgin holes. (I didn't mean that the way it sounds. Or maybe I did.) I waved to Livia on my way out of the boatyard. "Look at yooou!" she cooed.

Just off the beach, Dr. Vu had rented quite the unit, it turned out. We bellied up to the low en-suite wet bar to talk things over. I had the feeling someone else was there, but didn't press it, electing to hear what the surgeon had to say first. The proposal was: Either enough additional cash to cover the procedures we would pretend Dr. Vu had done on me, or, an introduction to someone Dr. Vu called both her partner and her associate.

I was confused, but really didn't want to pay out-of-pocket rates for insurance-ineligible procedures that had never even been on the doc's schedule, and I needed the updated documents. I circled my gin and tonic in the air, prompting her to go on.

Wouldn't you know it, the partner-slash-associate was not far. Dr. Vu called, "Myra?" and the suite's bedroom door opened. Myra high-heeled her way up to us, kissed Dr. Vu on the mouth and introduced herself as Madam Myra to me. I stood and shook hands, while she eyed me head to toe.

"My, my, don't you look like a playboy," she effused, and I supposed I did. There aren't that many college-agers who wear Salvatore Ferragamo shoes and collared white shirts these days, even to an interview. I ran my fingers through my black, wavy locks and breathed on my nails modestly, and mustered a sly eye-twinkle in response.

I observed the couple. Stefany Vu, fortysomething and black-haired, was tall for an Asian American: Even as she sat on her bar seat, she was eye to eye with Madam Myra whose last name I didn't know. The Madam was possibly a little younger and definitely a lot shorter, though some aggressive heels lifted her. An aggressive bra was doing some hefty lifting too, under her red designer dress. It was long sleeved, which you don't see often in Florida, but she was very fair and maybe spent all her time in air conditioned comfort instead of the sunny outdoors.

She came right out with it, no preamble. "Ten dates. I have ladies looking year round for bodies like yours to keep them company." I was getting the picture.

Dr. Vu added, "It's a value-add I offer during the post-op recuperation period. Myra practically has a built in clientele - not that she needs it." Ah. She pointed the finger at Myra, but they're both panderers, I thought.

I drank off the G&T, thinking. "Ten dates," I repeated. I could do it. With the money I'd save, it would be like paying myself four thousand dollars a night to please rich women with bandages on their faces, I imagined. I started to laugh as I remembered the lovemaking in the motel the other night, when I had begun to discover the implications of being 50 on the inside but 20 on the outside.

These biddies wouldn't know what hit them.

DIXIE

Mrs. Tavenner's face wasn't bandaged, or bruised. She was a regular. Myra had been procuring for her for years. It did look suspiciously smooth, though, and I wondered how many times it had been stitched up. I looked more closely and suspected that someone better than Vu had worked on Mrs. Tavenner. It was a fairly natural look, without the extremes of tightness one will often see on the faces of leisure-class ladies of a certain age.

I was here to work, so my interest in Mrs. Tavenner's looks was neutral, but I made a point of smiling and regarding her attentively. In a floor-length rusty-orange print dress and matching loose-sleeved top, she had toothpicky proportions punctuated by an unlikely pair of tits. Someone had done her colors, because her dress and the dye in her flowing chin-length hair went quite well with her complexion. Bronze was the theme, and the sunset coming in the back window of the condo enhanced it, filling the room with coppery sweet-light.

We shared a pair of mimosas despite the hour. It's always ten AM somewhere, right? Then we were driven to dine at an upscale Italian place not far from the condo. I behaved myself, playing along with whatever subject Dixie wanted to talk about, and avoiding the pitfalls I would have fallen into the first time I was twenty. I paid attention, made eye contact, smiled, and didn't make it all about me.

I followed Dixie's cues and began composing smoldering looks and beaming them at her, once she began flirting with slightly suggestive double entendres and stereotypical attention-seeking body language. Wherever her hands went, my eyes followed. If she touched her hair, I'd follow her hand up and linger there when she put it down again. When she licked a fingertip, I'd study her mouth and lick my own lip subtly. She absently adjusted a bra strap, and I shifted on my seat, repositioning my junk slighly. She slowly started to realize precisely what I was doing, and when her eye twinkled, mine mirrored it. She nodded softly to me, and paid the bill.

I offered my arm to her on the way to the car and paraded through the restaurant like she was my trophy rather than the other way around. I nodded goodnight smugly to the staff, covering her hand on my biceps with my own. In the back seat of the car, she was looking at me steadily. I could tell she was impressed with my confidence and poise, so unexpected in such a youthful man. But she was no pushover, no fawning spinster. Despite my fifty years of maturity, I was still a rookie in this business, and she was an experienced client.

I was willing to bet, though, that she rarely if ever laid men under 30. Madam Myra had explained to me the maturity it takes to be a full-time, top-shelf gigolo. I was resolved to make this a special try-out for the client. It was a matter of both professional courtesy as well as my genuine love of pleasing a partner, no matter how casual or intimate.

Besides, the pay was quite a sum, even though I'd never see the cash. The in-kind value would come soon enough, and I understood Dr. Vu's position. I did think it excessively favored her side of the bargain, but I had the time for a long game, and ten dates would seem like it had been nothing once my obligation was complete.

Mrs. Dixie Tavenner would be a challenging test of my performance.

Closing the door of the condo behind us, I turned and faced Dixie. I calmly brought my palms to her upper arms, and she took my elbows in her own hands. We smiled at each other for a few breaths, then I asked, "What music should we play?"

She put the ball in my court and told me to pick whatever I thought would do. I powered up her Sirius tuner and chose a soft-jazz station I knew would be warm, calm and brooding. As a caramel-toned tenor saxophone breezed over a tasteful piano trio, Dixie lifted her arms and stood before me, inviting me wordlessly to lead.

I didn't really know much about dancing, but I did know how to give and take, to suggest and listen to a partner. My embrace was simple, my footwork even simpler, but Dixie found me to be very pleasant to stand closely with, swaying and gently stepping together. I asserted moves gently, but attentive to Dixie's mood, and we got closer and closer over the course of three moody-tempoed songs. We were warming each other's ears with our breath by the time she let go of my left hand and snaked her right one behind my head.

I whispered to her, promising, "I'm having a lovely time, Dixie." She smirked very faintly, turned her face up to mine, and nodded approval. I tipped my face to meet her mouth and gave her my lips, pushing everything else out of my mind and feeling her pucker softly back. We parted with a quiet smack after a few heartbeats. She exhaled and I inhaled.

She took my head in both of her twiggy hands, I took her delicate waist in mine, and she felt my scalp as she came at me again. We kissed several more times, quickening and sighing. I was so patient, until she hummed plaintively, beginning to egg me on, so I wetted my lips and kissed her more vigorously. When I felt her mouth open, I responded with my tongue and found hers ready to meet mine between her lips. She shivered and humped her hips at me.

I knew she was fired up, so I lowered a hand to her slim backside and lifted my other under her arm, catching sideboob. She felt my pecs and clutched the small of my back. I caressed her bum and stroked the top of her breast, totally tuned in to her reactions. "More," she said, and I massaged her enhanced melon with ever increasing firmness until I thought I had the perfect pressure and rhythm.

She gripped the front of my slacks, finding my testicles hanging freely inside the silk boxer shorts I had bought that afternoon, and the chub of my semi-erect penis. I growled quietly into her neck at that, giving her the sound of the hormonal surges I was controlling.

"Enough! Enough, Jack, don't keep making me move this along!" Dixie embraced me tightly, humping her pubic bone against my thigh and kneading my ass wantonly. She panted vocally and stared at me. "Come on, bring it, you fucking stud!"

I couldn't help it and grinned shiteatingly at her, but I obliged and began to feel under her clothes. I took a step a quarter way around to the side of her body, and put one hand up her top, flipping her firm bra above her restrained globes. My other hand cupped her little toneless ass firmly, and probed her crack and between her upper thighs. I grabbed the back of the dress and lifted it, gathering and scrunching it twice, three times until her backside was exposed. I got my hand into her underpants and stroked her ass, while palming a grapefruit and grasping the nipple. She gave a breezy, singsongy moan and her eyes rolled upward.

"Let's get on the bed." I walked her over to the doorway and let her open it. We entered the dark bedroom and climbed on top of the king-sized bedspread, and I took her heels off and my own shoes.

She demanded, "Get naked." Her own clothes were coming off, and were thrown over a chair as I unbuttoned my shirt. As I opened the front and pulled it off, she felt my bare pecs and huffed hotly. I could begin to smell the natural perfume of her crotch, almost like a fresh armpit but with a syrup of copper, and my dick gave an involuntary pump.

"Turn that AC off please," she asked, and I looked in the dark for the thermostat and spied a red status light by the closet. While I went to change the setting, I pulled the rest of my clothes off and Dixie got under the covers.

"Women like it warm," I thought to myself for probably the five thousandth time in my life. I flipped the setting from air-conditioning to heat, put it at 78, and joined Dixie under the covers myself.

While Dixie warmed up under there with me, we laid side by side and explored each other's naughty bits with our hands. I was close to full erection, and she teased more firmness into it with squeezes and feathery fingertips. I found her mound and stroked the short, thin pubes, first up and down between her thighs, then in coaxing, circular sweeps as she sighed vocally and lifted one knee, opening slightly.

"I can't believe you're so patient," she marveled. I didn't answer, I just throbbed my boner deliberately in her hand. She chuckled at this. "So you are an eager beaver," she observed.

"Mmm hm," I said. "Speaking of beaver..." My finger dipped between her labia.

"Ohhh!" she squealed quietly. It was wet in the cleft and she slid herself up and down on my finger a couple of times. Her secretions were thin but slippery. It occurred to me that she was the oldest woman I had ever been intimate with, by quite a bit.

"God, let's do this." She threw the covers off. I was sweating-hot under there and felt my dew evaporate quickly. It was a relief, although I hadn't started to cook too badly yet. The timing was perfect and I saw that she was on all fours, watching me expectantly.