The Kitten Ch. 01

Okay, sometimes you just can't miss it. When something is so out of place, it just jumps out at you. And this was one of those times.

The average age at the Covington House dance, the "senior center" here in town although we don't call it that of course, is somewhere north of 60. After all, the minimum to join is 55.

I was sitting with my crew, as I always did on Friday nights, joking and laughing, passing around the flask Tom always brought in, and when she came it, well, if it was a movie script it would probably have read something like "All eyes turn to the figure entering through the main door."

All eyes turned as she walked in. She was so utterly out of place.

Women who come to the Friday night dance tend to fall into two distinct categories depending on how they react to menopause. There are the matrons with thick bodies and upper arms with those delicious pads of fat, and there are the spinsters (both are my labels of course) who had gone the opposite way, and shed every fat cell when the periods stopped. The spinsters tend to become stick figures.

But as the new girl, and I say "girl" advisedly, entered the room it was a whole new creature. I would have bet large sums she was still years away from her 30th birthday. She was tall and blonde, to my reasonably well-practiced eye a natural blonde at that, and slender.

Since my tastes have always run to buxom - of my three wives the smallest bra size was 36C - I thought she looked terrific even if she was so far outside of my normal "type."

But the reality side of me insisted on asking - "What the fuck is this fox doing in this geezer cage?"

I mean, seriously now. I got very lucky in my choice of parents and my genes. At 74 I still have most of my own teeth, most of my own hair, can drive my own car, and don't wear Depends. I figure I'm doing well. Hell, if I'm being honest, I figure I was about the best man in the place. My success with the ladies of Covington House confirmed that, to me anyway.

She stopped, just inside the door, and I was absolutely certain that she knew the dramatic image she cast as she surveyed the room.

I won't deny, I was flattered when her eyes paused on mine for a second before continuing on their sweep.

And I was surprised when she walked across the floor, easy to do since there were only a couple of couples dancing this early into the evening, and came up to me.

"Let's dance, handsome," she said, holding out her hand, and her smile was dazzling. I could picture her as the captain of the cheerleaders, leading the quarterback around by a ring in his nose. She had that kind of aura.

I almost surprised myself by taking the offered hand and standing.

I had a flash of being back in high school or, hell, maybe junior high, as a chorus of, "oooooooooooooooo" and little kissing sounds emanated from the table.

She flashed that smile around the table, said, "Grow up," effectively shutting everyone up, and led me onto the floor.

At Covington House, the live band is a local group, members actually, and they tended to play slow music in deference to the crowd's age. As we stepped out onto the floor Danny, the lead singer and moderately competent guitarist, was singing a song I recognized but couldn't name. It was a Blake Shelton, something about "good lookin'" and "cookin'." Typical Shelton in other words.

I stood for a second in the classic slow dance position, feet shoulder width, left arm bent, hand palm up. She covered my hand with hers and laid her other hand on my shoulder as I laid mine on her waist. I stood for a moment, catching the beat, and then stepped off into a basic box step.

"Okay," I said, "what is all of this?"

She smiled, a very pretty smile, and said, "You know what a cougar is, right?"

"Yeah," I said, "a mature woman who enjoys younger men."

"Well," she said, "think of me as a kitten, the opposite of a cougar. I'm a young woman who enjoys older men."

"Okay," I said, "Why me?"

She smiled, that dazzling smile, and said, "I'm new in town and you look like you have potential."

"Potential?" I asked, surprised by this non sequitur.

"Men," she said, and she stopped, making me stumble, and held me at arm's length, "should be soft and round and while you're way too skinny, you have potential."

I laughed and patted the belly I was always trying to get rid of. I'm one of those guys who graduated junior college at 145 pounds, got married, and promptly went to 155, joined the Air Force, and hit 165 by the end of basic training. And that's where I stayed until my 60th birthday at which point some sort of biological switch seemed to throw. I would watch the scales show a bigger number week by week until I topped out at 210 around my 65th birthday and started the dieting that I was still on a decade later.

"If I'm too skinny you must like REALLY big men," I said.

I wouldn't have thought it was possible but she added another hundred thousand watts or so to that smile.

Then she did the both-arms-around-the-neck thing, like it wasn't a dance at a senior center but a high school prom, molding herself to me in a way I hadn't felt in years, and said, "I do, is that a problem?"

Something about the way she asked the question, her voice so soft and breathy, her breath sweet as it caressed my cheeks, got to me way down at the brain stem, far below the level of any conscious thought.

"No," I managed before laying my hands on her hips, noticing what nice firm hips they were.

She smiled and kissed me, very softly, on the cheek.

"I'm Nancy by the way," she said.

"David," I said.

She did that sudden stop thing again, making me stumble a little, and extended her hand.

I took it and shook.

"To the start of a beautiful friendship," she said, flashing that smile.

Okay, okay, I get it.

I like to think I'm a bright guy. Hell, I'll even accept smart. I have papers to prove it. A couple of college diplomas including a Master's degree, and a four-decade career including two dozen book-length planning reports. Achieving the top of a very competitive career ladder. You know, bona fides like that.

But in that instant, facing that smile, I was lost. Oh, I don't believe in "love at first sight." But I was damn sure smitten at first sight.

I knew, almost prescient, that this woman was going to lead me around by a ring in my nose, or a ring any place she chose to put it for that matter.

And I liked it.

She did the two hands on the arm thing that some women have down to an art form, leaned close, and whispered, "Take me home."

I knew it was something out of a porn story. And I knew, I read pretty widely, I knew that these things often didn't end well. I felt like I had fallen into a Twilight Zone episode.

"Okay," is what I said.

We didn't even stop at the table on the way out. I did wave amidst a bunch of catcalls.

"I have a car," she said.

I was surprised, not at all, when she led me to a vintage sports car, I thought it was an Austin Healey remembering back to my days of sports cars when I was a Fiat driver.

I gave her turn-by-turn directions to my house in case she lost me as she followed. She didn't.

I figured her little car deserved the garage more than my 15-year-old pickup, so I waved her in while I parked in the driveway.

"You go in and slip into something more comfortable," she said, staying in her car and flashing that smile, "I'll be right back."

"But," I said before she shushed me.

"I'll be right back," she said again and raced the engine a little.

So I said, "Okay, I'll leave the back door open," got out, and walked to the door that entered my kitchen through the garage, being careful to walk with my back straight, almost marching, flashing back to my days in basic training.

I heard the car drive away and assumed that was that.

I chuckled as I thought about going back to the dance but decided to just call it a night. I figured I'd chalk this up to another life lesson from the school of hard knocks. Old men do NOT get girls like that.

I went into the bedroom, kicked off my shoes, and stripped off my clothes. In the bathroom, I peed, brushed my teeth, and washed my face.

I pulled a fresh pair of sweat pants, my version of pajamas, and one my my dozens of T-shirts, this one reading "DD-214 Alumni." I grimaced as I pulled the shirt down. God, the way it stretched across my belly you could see my outie belly button clearly. And a bit of my growing beer belly peeked out.

I turned on the TV and scrolled through my ROKU streaming services. I opened Amazon Prime and then sat back to watch Jack Reacher kick ass for a while.

When I heard a knock on the back door I assumed it was one of the guys come to see how it had gone with Nancy. So I just turned my head and yelled, "It's open."

I was anxious to see how Reacher was going to handle this pair of bad guys and jumped a little, startled, when she said, "Where can I put this?"

I turned and there was Nancy with a pair of big grocery bags in her arms.

And there was one of those phrases you see written but don't really understand until it happens.

My jaw dropped.

"Where can I put this?" she asked again.

I finally became unfrozen and rocked forward, got to my feet, and closed the distance between us.

"Here," I said, taking one of the bags, "in the kitchen."

I started to open one of the bags but she caught my arm, doing that two-hand thing again.

"Go in and sit," she said, "I'll take care of this."

She surprised me with a kiss. A good kiss too, full of promise.

"Now scoot," she said, patting my ass.

So I went back to my seat but, if I'm being honest here, I didn't watch much of the rest of that episode.

There's another phrase that was running through my mind. My head was spinning. I kept asking myself if this was really happening. But then I'd hear a sound from the kitchen and know it was true.

She came into the front room and sat next to me. Well, not exactly sat. She did that thing only a woman can do, kind of curling up and sitting on her feet, her knees touching my thighs.

She set the white box on my lap and opened it, showing me the dozen pastries from the bakery.

"Let me feed you, David," she said in that breathy voice I would come to find irresistible.

Her fingers were light, brushing my hair back before she just touched my eyelids, making me close my eyes.

God, it felt so good. I sighed and leaned my head back.

When she brushed my lips with one of the sticky buns I caught the scent of fresh pastry, still warm from the oven. I tasted a hint of sweetness before I opened my mouth.

God, it was SO good after years of watching every calorie. The sweetness of the icing, the warmth of the body, the feel of something so good in my mouth. I chewed and swallowed and when she brushed my lips again I opened my mouth greedily.

"That's my good little piggy," she said and I felt a rush deep in my belly at those words. Looking back, I realize that in a story this is what would have been called foreshadowing in my literature class.

The way she was feeding me was a sensual experience in itself. She would stuff my mouth full and before I could finish chewing and swallowing she would be brushing my lips again and it was like my mouth was operating outside of my control.

But it was her voice that was getting to me most. She was almost hypnotic, her tone and cadence almost musical.

"That's my good boy," she said, pushing another bit into my mouth.

"Such a pretty fat boy," she said, this time the bite was thick chocolate along with the clear sweet glaze.

"My little pudge button," she said, rubbing my belly as I chewed.

And for the first time in years, my body was responding without the need for Viagra.

When I reached for her, wanting to hold her, she slapped my hand.

"We save that until I'm done feeding you," she said, giggling a little.

I was full. God, I was fuller than I had been in years. And the pastries kept coming.

"I don't think I can," I said as she brushed my lips again.

"Of course, you can," she said in that soft, persuasive voice, brushing a chocolate Long John against my lips.

So I opened my mouth once again.

I really have no idea how long that first feeding, well, okay, that first stuffing, went on. My jaws were aching before the box was empty. My belly was distended. The T-shirt had ridden up until it was bunched under my man boobs, almost like a bra or maybe a halter top. My chin was smeared with icing and chocolate.

"Do you know how handsome you are?" she asked.

I chuckled.

"Seriously," she said, "that's why I picked you. And you don't even know it, do you?"

"I think I'm okay for a fat boy," I said.

She giggled at that.

"Oh, you poor skinny thing," she said, patting my belly.

That made me laugh.

This time, the kiss was a serious thing. A real man-woman kiss. Not just full of potential, this was an immediate offering.

"Let's go to bed," she said.

This time, as stuffed as I was, it took me three rocks to get enough momentum to get to my feet.

She didn't offer a helping hand. She just watched, smiling.

Christ, I was so stuffed, so bloated, I felt like a pregnant woman must when her center of gravity is all fucked up. I had to lean back a little just to stay upright.

She laid her palms on my cheeks, very gently, and said, "Come on, beautiful."

I took her hand and led her down the short hall, past the bathroom, to my bedroom.

She turned and now that smile, so winning, was more a grin.

"Undress me, fat boy," she said.

I couldn't decide if it was being called "fat" or being called "boy" that was getting to me so much.

She was dressed quite modestly. Her blouse, well, her shirt actually, a man's shirt, blue chambray, buttoned up the front, and, to be honest, I was kind of proud that my fingers weren't trembling as I started unbuttoning it.

She was slender in the way of a swimming sprinter or a long-distance runner. Her arms were thin, her shoulders distinctly round, there were hollows at her collarbones, and her ribs showed, not in a malnourished way, but in the slender way of a woman who carried little body fat.

Her bra was a sheer thing, white, and her small nipples, very dark, showed up dramatically on pale breasts, very small. As I reached around and unhooked her bra and slipped it off of her shoulders I peeked at the tag and saw 32A and realized her breasts were so small they didn't really fill the A cup.

I had to get to my knees to finish her. I took her foot into my lap, and she laid her hands on my shoulders for balance, as I untied the shoe and then got it off and followed by taking off the sock. I did the other foot next. Her feet were long and skinny, like the rest of her, with long toes, almost like fingers. You almost expected her big toe to be opposable, like a thumb.

Her belt almost defeated me before I figured out it was one of those ratchet things and puzzled out how the release catch worked. But I got it loose and then the button of her jeans, worn so tight it was hard to get it undone. The zipper worked fine though, and I peeled the jeans down.

Peeled is the right word. Jesus, had she painted the damn things on?

When I rolled her panties down I got the biggest surprise of the night. Well, except, of course for the surprise that she was here at all.

The rest of her was young and slender.

Her pussy, though, was an old woman's sex. First, this was the hairiest damn thing I had ever seen. The thick, coarse, curly, light brown hair started at her belly button and spread into a big diamond almost to her hipbones and then down her thighs a couple of inches. She was slim enough that she had a distinct thigh gap, and her inner lips, those delicate labia minora, delicate and very darkly pigmented, dangled a full two inches into the thigh gap.

She took the two steps back to the bed and parted her legs.

"Crawl over here, little piggy, and make me cum with that pretty mouth of yours," she said.

And I wasn't troubled at all by the change in her demeanor. It felt perfectly natural to do as she asked. I leaned forward, onto all fours, and crawled to her. I buried my face in that thick mass of hair and found her inner lips with my mouth and began sucking gently. I felt her swelling in my mouth and tasted her arousal on my tongue.

She was delicious and I knew I was addicted at the first taste of her.

"That's my good boy," she said, her hands stroking my hair, petting me like a favored dog.

I reached up, timidly, afraid she would stop me, and gently parted her nether lips, watching as the thick white nectar of her excitement formed little threads connecting them. As I watched she grunted softly, and a cascade of that thick, white honey ran down the crack of her ass before forming a thick string and hanging, slowly getting longer. It seemed perfectly natural to bend forward to catch that beautiful ambrosia on my tongue.

She did that a half dozen times, those easy little not-quite orgasms while I used my mouth, my lips kissing and my tongue lapping and probing, her heavenly womantaste the best after-dinner aperitif I could imagine. All the while I was on all fours, somehow comfortable in the awkward position. Suddenly, her hands went to my ears she pulled me where she wanted me.

Her final orgasm was waterboarding me as my ears hurt from the way she was pulling at them. Christ, it felt like she was tearing the damn things off.

I couldn't swallow fast enough and coughed, covering her belly and my face with her honey.

Her hands on my ears moved my head around, using my face to gently wipe her pussy where she had just cum so hard.

"What a good little piggy," she said at last, pushing me away far enough to look at my soaked face.

She stood then, her hands in my hair, and said, almost conversationally, "Let's go to bed, David"

I started to stand but she pushed the back of my head, stopping me.

"No, Baby," she said in that same conversational tone, "Piggies go on all fours."

So I crawled along, following her, watching her slender ass, enjoying every move.

"Pee, Piggy," she said, motioning to the toilet.

Okay, I haven't seen my dick in years, so I sat to pee.

I was surprised when she bent to kiss me and then said, "Oh, David, we are going to have so much fun."

It was a struggle to pee because I was hard, but I managed.

In bed, her hands seemed to be everywhere. She caressed and then jiggled my belly. She played with my dick where it was hard. She seemed fascinated by the fat on my thighs. She pinched my cheeks. She played with my moobs, those man boobs, that had been growing so much the past few years.

I was having trouble breathing when she finally straddled me. Jesus, she was tighter than my high school girlfriend had been.

And as happens with old men who haven't had sex lately, it lasted about 30 seconds.

I came and it was good.

Well, it was good for a second but then she slapped me.

"Oh, David," she said, "If you can't last longer than that I'll have to find someone else."

"I'm sorry, Nancy," I said, and I was.

"Well," she said, smiling, "I'm not going anywhere tonight so let's enjoy it. We'll see if you can do better tomorrow."

She snuggled into my shoulder and nuzzled my moob, and within a few seconds her breathing settled into a slow, even rhythm and she started snoring softly, almost purring.

That is how the first day of my new life ended.