Ilka's Place Pt. 01

(The characters in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.)

Ilka picked me up off the street. I'd been homeless for about a week after I was kicked out of my last couch-surfing spot. There, they'd given me a month to find a job and get my own place, but I guess the word had gotten around to the various restaurants that I was slow and unreliable. I only work in restaurants. Being a line cook/fry cook is my only skill.

The rainy, cold night she stopped for me, I was sleeping, or trying to sleep, in a bus stop shelter, with my coat pulled up around my head and my legs in a fetal position. My small backpack was under my "bed." The temp was about 45, and I was having a problem nodding off because the overhead street light was sputtering and flickering.

I heard a car stop and a door slam shut. I scrunched up tighter so I wouldn't have to look at anyone. A hand pushed my shoulder back and forth.

An older female voice with a foreign accent: "Mister, mister, hey mister. You hear me, mister?"

I tried to shrug her off and didn't reply.

"Mister, you shouldn't be out here."

"Leave me alone. I'm fine. Go away."

"You'll get pneumonia. You have any place to go? Can I take you somewhere?"

I was beginning to think she was good for something. "I'll be OK. I'm homeless."

"You poor boy. You can get in my car and will take you home."

Shivering, I made my way into the front seat of her fading, decade-old sedan along with my backpack.

"I should say thank you," I said, welcoming the heat pouring from the vehicle's vents. "Most people would rather I didn't exist."

Putting the manual transmission into gear, she told me, in that thick accent, that her name was Ilka. "Vell, she said, "I think you will behave? I want to help you. I can tell you are not the usual homeless."

Ilka was, to say the least, a solidly built woman in her 50s. I took a few sideways glances at her from my vantage point. Wearing a puffy, thick and warm blue coat, she was much heavier and a bit taller than me. Her hair was already silver in color, and short, looking mannish. There were several garish rings on her heavy hands on the wheel.

Despite myself, I soon fell asleep as her car negotiated the city. She woke me up in the dark of a small parking lot behind an apartment building, and led me in through a lighted entryway. I hoped she would have some food for me.

We walked down a short hallway and entered her apartment. She seemed too good to be true for a guy like me -- she seemed officious and solicitous at the same time. Her clock was about to hit midnight as she pulled off her coat in her neat but somewhat gaudily decorated place. Strange to my eyes. I was wondering if I'd ventured into the twilight zone.

She quickly fried up an omelet along with small pieces of ham. I tried not to eat too ravenously. I still have a sense of pride. Ikla wasn't a bad cook at all; I would know.

We didn't talk much (except to exchange names), before she let me take a shower, throwing my filthy clothing in her washing machine and promising to dry it in the morning. She gave me a large beach towel to conceal myself on the way to my smallish bedroom. I slept like a rock.....

..... and didn't wake up until the sun was already high in the sky. Wrapping the towel around me, I made my way out into her empty apartment. On the dining room table was a note: "Hello Brett. Good morning. I left for work and will return during the noon lunch. You find your clothing in the drier. Please make yourself food from refrigerator."

It was already 9:30. I took my old clothes from her drier, dressed, ate well, and put the remainder of my clothing from my pack into her washing machine.

My curiosity about this woman led me to thoroughly explore her apartment -- all four and a half rooms. There were some ancient-looking photos of relatives. The furniture tended to be very old-fashioned -- stuffed, with elaborate woodwork and doilies. There was a vase holding both an American and a foreign flag, which I assumed was from her home country. My own bedroom was bare compared to the rest of the place, with empty dresser drawers and an empty closet. But, my room did have a radio, reading lamp, and a Bible.

Finally, I just had to scout out her bedroom. There was a big, four-poster bed, with (no surprise here!) thick comforter-like blankets. Elaborate curtains covered the windows.

I went to her dresser, with its large mirror on top. I just had to check out her secret (to me) stash of old-lady underwear and stuff. It reminded me of going through my mother's dresser drawers as a teen. Very erotic. Seeing an older woman's undies would be a new twist on things.

The first drawer merely had stockings, scarves, mittens, and a Bible. The second held an assortment of nightgowns and sweaters. The third held (yes!) big-gal panties, and big-cup bras and slips. The fourth held corsets.

God, this woman loved corsets -- old-style zip-up, open-bottom corselettes; a few really old-fashioned corsets requiring lacing; and some separate open-bottom, waist-high girdles. There were also some long-line bras. All these were white or flesh-colored, with the exception of one rather-sexy black corselette. I wondered how she looked in it.

I also looked through her large closet, but there wasn't much there to capture my attention. I was ever so careful not to remove anything from a drawer, or change the position of anything.

Along this tack, I took the time go go through all her things in her bathroom. The medicine cabinet was just that. In two of the drawers down below, I found her makeup and beauty products. They were encrusted and a turnoff, except for two sexy tubes of lipstick. I couldn't help myself and applied the bold red of one to my lips, posturing in the mirror. I smacked my lips together, savoring their slight stickiness. I was also feeling quite sinful for using something so personal without asking. But what would she think if she knew? She'd probably think I was an ungrateful pervert, and I'd be back on the street. At least I'd have clean clothes!

I returned the lipsticks to their exact previous spot. I felt a growing wet spot in my jockey shorts.

Ilka returned as promised around noon and made lunch -- heating up some soup and some leftover beef brisket. She wondered how I spend the morning.

"I didn't wake until late, and then did some more of my laundry, and then watched a little TV."

"You look more like a human being now," she laughed. "When I return tonight, we need to talk, to see what will happen, Brett. You know you can't stay here long; I just want to help you get going on your feet, right?"

"I understand, Ilka. Thanks again."

That evening after another of her tasty meals, we sat down in her over-decorated living room. She apologized for being in such a hurry earlier, saying she ran a barber shop for men by herself, a mile away. She also explained that she owned the six-unit apartment building we were in.

"I am from Hungary," she explained. "My husband there abused me; ruined my life. He was rich. At our divorce, he convinced the court I bad mother, and so gained custody of our son and daughter. I lost contact with them due to his devious. I had to start a new life. So I came here.

"Now I have my barbershop, which serves mostly men from old country. They are now my family, along with a few of their wives. When we're together, we still speak the old language."

Now it was my turn. I told her how I'd gotten my college degree, and then went into auto sales where I made a bundle of money, but then frittered it away on cocaine and other dangerous stuff. I finally got a job in a greasy diner as a fry-line cook and that became my stable employment, although I drank too much.

Lately, I had found that the speed and concentration required on that job (along with the heat) wasn't my cup of tea. I had given some thought to, of all things, becoming a male nurse.

"That's a story, Brett. We both have some hard times. She heaved up a little, sitting there on the couch, pushing her large breasts against her thin sweater. I noticed her petite, one-pearl earrings, and her rings, again. I could see she was still wearing brown nylons. She had one tooth up front with a large gold filling. I wondered if she was wearing a corselette.

"Listen, Brett, you should go for the nurse. I think one of my customers works in a hospital so you could talk with her. Yes, I do have few woman customers. My cuts cost much less than the beauty parlor."

The very next day, Ilka took me with her to cut my hair. It had grown longer over the several months of unemployment (down to my shoulders), and she asked whether I wanted it short or long. I opted for the latter.

She sat me down in her old-fashioned, elaborate chair, jacked it up a bit, and suddenly I felt I was under her control. As she spread her cape over my chest and legs, I could feel her considerable body heat, and her wide waist came in contact with my arm. Despite myself, I quickly got a erection.

As she deftly trimmed away with scissors and her electric razor, she often happily hummed, and lightly sang some Hungarian song. It wasn't long before she was finished, proudly showing me her handiwork. I was surprised. I looked five years younger, and my longish hair now framed my face nicely.

I thanked her and made to stand up. "No, no, Brett. There is more. My standard. Everybody likes it."

She pulled an odd-looking electric hand massager out of a drawer and plugged it in. Strapping it to her hand and switching it on, she began massaging my shoulders. I was embarrassed, to say the least, because it was too powerful for my sensibilities. She moved it around, even taking several passes over my nipples. My God! I wonder if she realized the erotic effect that had on me.

"You like, Brett?"

"Something new, but of course I like." Now I was imitating her accent. That's something I do. I'm something of a chameleon.

Now she transferred the device to her other hand and began massaging my head. My skull began to vibrate. On the plus side, the massager had to be helping the blood circulation under my scalp. She dwelled too long doing this, but I didn't want to speak up and make her think I was unappreciative.

Finally, she pulled the cape off me and I stood up a little unsteadily. This had been some experience. She had gained some kind of power over me with this powerful, weird massaging.

As her next haircut guy arrived (about her age), she called for an Uber to take me "home." After she returned there for lunch as usual, she departed and left me alone once again. She certainly was placing a lot of trust in me. Maybe it was due to being a Christian.