I don't think there's an English word to express the combined emotion of pure terror and utter excitement that accompanies moving from Rusty Shit Pail, USA to BIG CITY, USA. I'd already landed on my feet before I even left RSP. Online, I'd found a building that housed mainly seniors that required an odd job man to live-in and deliver some fairly basic services: collect prescriptions and some light cleaning mainly, according to the post. It also required me to do some basic training in cpr and learn how to operate a defibrillator. For the room I would get, for the rent I would pay, it was a dream.
No U-Haul was hurt in the move. Everything I possessed fitted nicely in an old suitcase I'd found in my grandparent's loft. The apartment was partly 'furnished' so I made do. My bed was to be a rickety couch for the first month or two. My suitcase was my closet. My chores comprised keeping the bulletin board up to date, daily sweeping of the stairs and lobby and being active on the building WhatsApp group to deliver whenever the old ladies who lived in the building needed something they couldn't get for themselves. Zero hardship there.
The first night I was there, Katerina, my cross-hall neighbor, knocked on the door around 6.30 in the evening. As I was yet to do anything to merit the incredibly low rent, I was in excited form when I answered the door. Katerina was in her 70s, probably. Though regular gym visits kept her looking mid 60s. But to be honest, to my early 20s guy-brain, anyone over 30 looked like a senior anyway. But in Katerina's case, she was a 70-year-old knock-out. Like, an utter sex bomb. I know, I know! How could a 20-something guy fall for a 70-year-old. Trust me. Just meet Katerina.
There was something so alluring and sexually raw about her that made my cock twitch in my pants. It was hard to put a finger on, but she had an amazing body and a sassy air about her that was at once sensuous and innocent.
"I just wanted to drop by and welcome our new sacrificial lamb." She laughed. "Honestly, though, we're all so independent here, you'll probably never hear from us."
"That's reassuring." I responded stupidly. "But I am her to help."
At that, Katerina's eyes lit up and, if I'd been even mildly experienced in the ways of love, I might have detected the unmistakable signs of lust. Being, ostensibly, a virgin, I wondered if she was perhaps suffering from gas. She was fairly short, but I imagined all old people were. I guess maybe 5 foot or five-one. She wore her dyed grey-black hair in a surprisingly modern bob which framed her piercing grey eyes. Her height accentuated her athletic frame, and her breasts were naturally large. This is all looking back on it with the eye of maturity. At the time, I saw a sexy old broad, no more.
"I'm sure we can find lots to keep you occupied." She said with a healthy dose of throaty innuendo which sailed over my head. She asked if I was settling in ok. I said yes.
"I didn't see movers. You must travel lightly."
"Very."
"But I can't imagine there was much in the apartment when you arrived? Mr Ballustrone left with all his worldly."
I admitted it was a tad frugal, but I planned on furnishing over time.
Katerina said she'd ask around and see if anyone was planning on disposing of any old bits and pieces.
I thanked her. And that was it. Our first meeting. Although, I admit I stood in my door watching her walk to her door, and my eyes couldn't but help drift to her ass as it wiggled while she walked away. She turned at her door and gave me a curious look. If I'd been a bit wiser, I would have detected the gaze of pure lust.
Over the next week, I met Amy Galloway, 80, Susan Bridgewater, 72, Valentina Sorenson, 68 and Valerie Marinelli, 76, the rest of the residents. Katerina arranged a get-together in the shared space beside the lobby and provided prosecco and sandwiches. I was paraded in front of the women like Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North.
Whatever they saw, they all seemed impressed and thoroughly lovely.
Valentina's was the first text I received.
"A small favor?' it read.
Within minutes, I was tapping on her door and greeted by the tall thin Russian in a skimpy robe. I think, even in my profound innocence, I noticed her incredible legs. I suspect, even a blind person would. It turns out Valentina, a former ballerina, was fond of pirouetting down memory lane and had pulled her hamstring in the process. I moved some bits and pieces around her Aladdin's den of an apartment, mildly jealous of her collection of nick-nacks.
But the real reason for the summons, it transpired, was to apply liniment to the affected area.
In my blessed innocence, I happily did as directed. Valentina sat bolt upright in a wicker chair with her long legs, slightly apart, stretched out before her, robe hitched up to her waist. I took the tube of liniment and rubbed some between my palms, then, kneeling and cupping her thighs with my hands, I gently massaged it into the muscles from rear of kneecap to the base of her buttock. At the time, I thought she must be in a lot of pain, because as I was administering the lotion, her breath became raspy and labored, and she gave out the odd small gasp. I asked her if I should stop.
She pleaded with me to add more lotion to my hands and reapply, concentrating on the upper part of her leg, and perhaps the thigh muscle at the front where she was experiencing referred pain.
I duly did so. I liberally applied the liniment to my hands and caressed it into her thigh, thumbs meeting on top, fingers snaking underneath to cover the hamstring. My hands pushed a small roll of skin ahead of them from above her kneecap, right up to the edge of her panties -- which I had just become aware of. The knuckle of my first finger bumped into the roundness just at the top, where her legs almost met, and she shivered. I asked her again if I should stop. She said whatever I had just done seemed to be working and to repeat my application on just that spot. So, I did as requested, over and over.
I was just thinking I had used to much lotion, because I could feel her underwear were damp when I brushed against them on the upstroke. I was about to mention this to Valentina, when she started to violently shake. I genuinely though she was having some kind of seizure. I went to stand up and she snapped at me.
"Don't stop!"
So, I kept up the rubbing of her upper thigh, bumping each time into her panties, until the seizures lessened, and her breathing returned to normal. (Embarrassingly, towards the end of the massage, she appeared to do a small pee in her panties, and I could see the dark patch spreading on the light color material. I pretended not to notice. Old age, I presumed.) As I was leaving, Valentina pirouetted towards me, obviously feeling much better. She hugged me, thanked me, kissed me on the cheek and slipped a hundred-dollar bill in my shirt pocket. I protested, but she'd hear none of it. She said, I had been a wonder and she hoped she could call on me in the future. I said "of course, any time. You have my number and I'm only thirty seconds away." This seemed to give her some solace and she blushed -- presumably feeling a bit feeble at having to require the help of a young boy.
The next call, I felt, was a bit beyond my paygrade, but I accepted the task with all the odd job man enthusiasm and compassion I could muster.
Amy Galloway sent me a text, summoning me to the top floor, late one afternoon. It seemed her usual nurse had called in sick, and Amy was suffering more than usual from bed sores, having been ordered to rest in bed for a week by her doctor. The worst, she confided in me with some reluctance, we're of the posterior variety. Again, she asked if I would be able to apply her drugstore elixir to the affected spot. Literally, having no clue what she was requesting, I agreed immediately.
Soon, Amy was on her front and on her knees on the mattress, bare ass in the air. I had not seen many asses of any kind in my, to date, sheltered life. It's large, lumpy, rounded whiteness did stir something in me. But I put it aside. I offered to get surgical gloves to make it all seem more medical, but, thinking I was squeamish, she assured me that she'd had a shower earlier. I didn't want her to feel embarrassed, so left it there.
