After dinner I helped Mr. Jenkins settle Mrs. Jenkins in her recliner in the living room.
"Yes, that's right, my love," he said as we eased her off her walker, "The old girl likes to watch her Wheel before bedtime. Don't ya sweets?" It was seriously lovely the way he cared for her.
"You two are the sweetest things. Mr. Jenkins, you sit down and watch with Mrs. Jenkins and I'll clean up."
"Hey, well that sounds like a deal, little darlin'! Lemme just slip back in and grab my whiskey."
"No no. You sit down, I'll bring it in for you..." but as I spoke he kept walking with me, kind of turning me as we went through the kitchen door. When we got in there he twirled me and pressed me up against the wall.
"I been thinking about those thighs of yours all through dinner."
He had reached over under the table a few times and squeezed my leg. It was just a little square four person table, and one time he put his hand on my knee and slowly slid it up. He gave little pats to the inside of my thigh, so like I'd spread my legs, I guess, and he did it really quick and kind of hard with his long fingers so it stung a little bit, but then he'd rub the spot softly and make it hot and give it a gentle squeeze as he'd move his hand up further, and SLAP, he'd do it again and rub and then lightly press, until he pretty much got where my thigh stopped and my pussy just sat behind my volleyball shorts. He left his long fingers there.
I keep saying long fingers. They weren't long, really. They were long for his body, 'cause as I said he was kind of a smaller man, but they were thick, and the joints were all swole and knobby from arthritis, and they were strong from a whole life of farming. But there was a weird thing with his right hand. I guess he got it mangled at some point in some equipment. So his pointer finger was sort of twisted and maybe it had been stretched because it did look weirdly bigger and longer than the rest. Then the top third of his middle finger just above the knuckle had got tore right off. You can't avoid using your middle finger, so on that one there was about a half inch knob that had developed into kind of a calloused ball. The whole thing looked like a claw a little bit, the joints and fingers had all adapted differently than a normal hand so it was like each finger was a custom made tool. He worked for decades with that deformed hand which made it more deformed by adapting to all the stuff he had to grab and lift and carry and throw. You might notice things like that about old men but you never look closely. Not until you become really familiar with it, like I did.
He was talking to Mrs. Jenkins, telling her a story Floyd Crawley had told him about fishing, and he was leaning way forward over the table like you do if you're telling a really exciting story, and so he was making it exciting for her, even though it was just a fishing story, and even though he was really leaning way over the table because he had his arm stretched out and his hand between my legs. I could see Mrs. Jenkins was enjoying the story because her half smile was crooked up and her eyes twinkled, and Mr. Jenkins was kinda breathless with his excited telling and a little red faced and his nostrils were flared and I could see all this black hair in his nose and with his head over the table between us and I could see there was a good patch of long black hairs in his ear, too. The thick, crooked veins on his neck and his red sweaty forehead throbbed with the intensity of his storytelling and he laughed in between some of the lines he was telling and all the while he was moving those two weird fingers up and down my pussy outside my shorts.
It was like there were two me's there--the one who made dinner and enjoyed seeing these dear old neighbors chat and joke, and then there was the me whose pussy was getting hot and wet as two strong and strange fingers rubbed and jabbed in hard patterns over my pussy lips through the fabric of my damp shorts. Honestly, I never had to think or decide which one was me. I was just so relaxed and enjoying both things, I just settled easy with both, and genuinely giggled with Mrs. Jenkins at Mr. Jenkins making faces describing Floyd trying to reel in a fish, and I genuinely moaned underneath and humped back and ground down on his nubby fingers --I even lifted my ass once so he could push his hand under a little bit more and I sat down hard and rocked and rode on those twitching, stubby claws.The lycra of my volleyball shorts between my pussy and his hand was soaking wet.
As he finished the story, he naturally pulled his hand back to stand up and deliver the punchline with a gesture of his hands, and as Mrs. Jenkins bent over kind of silently giggling, he looked over at me and brought his fingers to his nose, that middle knob so wet it looked like he'd dipped it in syrup, smiling and laughing, and he inhaled my odor, and I was laughing too, at the story, but also kind of at how good that felt and how totally crazy it was that he did that right there and he sucked the knob clean and was now just staring me down. This old man had game, and I guessed just really big balls to play like that, and it was weirdly hilarious.
But dinner continued at a little more normal after that, and by the time we'd moved Mrs. Jenkins to the living room it was like I'd almost forgot the whole thing, and so I was again surprised when he came on like this in the kitchen.
We're about the same height, I guess. I'm 5'9" and maybe he's a little bit shorter, one of those old farmers who's tough and wiry and seems bigger, for as little as he actually is, and now he had me pinned to the wall and I was not quite standing straight up as he whirled me so fast and put my back against the wall and I slid down a bit. He was right up against me, one leg between mine, his knee pressed up against my pelvis kind of holding me up, and he was just staring me right in the eyes. I could smell the whiskey on his breath so much, and though he was speaking low he was kind of spitting a little bit, and sweet old Mr. Jenkins had just kind of transformed, even though all his wrinkles and scars and gray beard were the same, he was saying in a really fast and intense way how beautiful I was and how he bet my pussy hair was as blonde as the hair on my head, which he had in his left hand, my pony tail kind of wrapped around it and he pulled, saying how I needed to show him my pussy quick and to do as he said because otherwise he'd have to fuck me right there with his wife in the other room.
I seriously had to try to keep from laughing again--not at him, not because it was ridiculous, which of course it kind of was, but because the situation was just so fucking crazy, I swear to God! If my girlfriends could see this... I thought, when I tell Michelle tomorrow... and for the first time Matthew came into my mind.
Matthew is my boyfriend. We're kind of the king and queen of our high school. In fact we were Homecoming King and Queen and we'd probably be Prom King and Queen in the spring because we were like the perfect couple together, He made me feel so hot!
I was the homecoming queen the year before, too, with Bucky Hayes, who wasn't my boyfriend, but we were elected at the dance, and afterwards he said he had to give me a ride home because as a senior he couldn't let his junior homecoming queen go home without a proper ride. I didn't want to. I actually already really liked Matthew, but... well I don't want to talk about that right now. Not all high school memories are good ones.
Anyways, Matthew and I hooked up soon after. And we were the same age, born on the exact same day, so that when we turned 18 at the beginning of senior year, I considered that my gift to us, the giving of my true virginity, my love virginity, fucking my football captain like the adults we were now on the couch in the waiting room of the dentist office which he cleaned at nights and on the weekends.
