Let me introduce myself, my name is Robert; well, most people call me Bob. I'm 53, five feet eleven with short salt and pepper hair. I keep my hair short as if it grows to any length at all it just starts to go wild. I'm single; well divorced, so yeah single and although I don't work out, I've managed to maintain a decent figure despite my penchant for a few beers. Looks-wise I understand that I'm about average; no Adonis but a long way from Frankenstein's monster. I've been told that my best feature is my crystal blue eyes. My ex-wife used to call them come-to-bed eyes. I like to think that my best feature is encased in my trousers and I've never had any complaints on that score.
Since my divorce I've had to get myself a new place; my little bachelor pad. It's a tiny two bedroomed flat near the centre of town, with the second bedroom used as my office. Oh yeah, I'm a self-employed accountant who works from home unless I'm at a client's premises. Once my ex had finished taking me to the cleaners I didn't have enough left for anything else but it's home and it's handy being so close to the town for business and for pleasure.
Now, about my problem. We are going through one of the hottest summers we've ever experienced and, well, everywhere I turn I see these young women of all ages from late teens to mid-thirties wearing them. Yes, those damn, pretty little summer dresses. Sure, they come in a variety of colours and designs but they all have extremely short hemlines and many of them are low cut. My eyes are popping out on stalks every time I walk down the High Street; if I'm not eyeing up a nice pair of long legs, imagining what's at the junction of the thighs I'm catching glimpses of boobs, some braless and bouncing, others restrained and pushing against the thin material holding them in. My dick seems to have a permanent hard-on as I walk down the street and I have noticed a few of the young ladies sneak a peek at my bulge.
Now rumour has it that there are a percentage of young ladies that actually prefer an older man; a sort of father figure if you like. But how do I know which ones they are? It's not as if they wear a badge saying "I'm into older men"; if only they did that would help my fantasy come true. So I just take in the sights and masturbate to my memories of all that young flesh.
Today I'm going to continue with my morning ritual. I hate being stuck in the flat all day, so I start every morning with a coffee at one of the coffee shops in the High Street. I don't really care which one it is and I often end up in one where the pair of legs I have been following enters. This morning, however, I'm gasping for some caffeine, so I just enter the nearest one to my flat. The place is real busy and tables are at a premium; I order a Caffè Americano and look for a seat. Spoilt for choice, I can either join a dowdy looking middle-aged woman who has a table to herself or there is a table with two early twenties young women wearing those dresses. Decision made, I approach their table and ask if they mind if I join them. They stop their conversation, look up at me and gesture to the seat. I sit and place my coffee down, opening up one of the shop's newspapers. I turn a page occasionally but I'm not reading; my eyes are fixed on the girl to my right. Her dress is one of the low cut ones and I have a lovely profile of her right breast; it looks soft and inviting and I am imagining peeling down the top of her dress and encasing her nipple in my mouth. If she were to move slightly I might just get to see a hint of the nipple I desperately want to latch onto.
I take a sip of my coffee, my eyes never leaving her breast; she moves so that the top of the dress gapes a bit; damn she's wearing a bra. Still I got more of an eyeful and I would certainly be jacking off thinking of those boobs when I returned home.
My phone rang and I took it out of my trouser pocket and checked it. Good, not a creditor -- it was Gerry, one of my customers.
"Hi Gerry, what can I do you for?" I asked.
"Same old bad jokes eh Bob?" he responded, "I was wondering if you had a few minutes to pop by the office this afternoon. I've got the latest set of our figures for you to check."
"Sure Gerry, I'll get there for around two," I said. We exchanged a few pleasantries and I put my phone on the table and picked the newspaper back up, not that I'd read a single word of it. The two girls were in animated conversation but keeping their voices low. Every so often the focus of my attention would lean closer to her friend giving me a better look down her top; that breast would haunt me for the rest of that day, it looked so mouth-wateringly good.
I finished my coffee, put the paper down and left the shop. Walking back to my flat, I had one hand in my pocket discreetly stroking my cock. I'd got about half way home when I realised my hand was in the pocket where my phone should be; I checked my other pockets, nothing and then it hit me. I had put it down on the table and then covered it with the paper as I left. I rushed back to the coffee house and walked to the table; the two girls were just getting up, ready to go. The one whose breast I had been ogling saw me and said, "Are you looking for your phone? I handed it in to the girl behind the counter." With that the two of them walked out of the door and were gone.
I looked wistfully after the two girls; the one I hadn't paid any attention to was a bit on the large side for my tastes, I liked my women small and curvy. The object of my affection was just my type and now I could take in her pins; they were shapely and looked like they led the way to heaven. As they disappeared out of sight I went to the counter and recovered my phone, before repeating my journey home.
Once home I entered the bathroom, unzipped my flies and rubbed one out while picturing that breast in my mind. I then entered my "office" and got on with my day's work before making my way to Gerry's office to carry out some work for him. Gerry's workforce is male dominated, and the few women there are all forty plus and not anything to fantasize about. He has, however, just taken on an apprentice, Niamh, who was helping out in the office where I was checking the books. An unexpected distraction; 18 years old with a slim figure, light brown hair which she wore in a pony tail and a devastating smile which would warm the cockles of anyone's heart. And, guess what, she was in one of those dresses; flowery, short and in the right light, somewhat translucent. It took me twice as long as it should have to check Gerry's accounts and my cock was straining against my trousers.
On the drive home I was imagining her in my bedroom as I slowly stripped her young body naked and kissed the entire surface of her skin, finishing up at her young inexperienced pussy. Once in my front door, I whipped out my cock and proceeded to the bathroom where I came within seconds of rubbing it. As I came, I imagined coating Niamh's innocent young face with my cream.
After cleaning up, I went to the kitchen to prepare my dinner for the evening. In this hot weather I generally have a small cold assortment; pork pie, Scotch Egg that sort of thing with a small salad as a gesture to a healthy diet.
I settled down in front of the telly for the night searching for something interesting to watch and was still channel hopping when my phone rang. I checked my watch, seven fifteen -- no-one usually rang me at this time and I was expecting it to be a PPI or accident claim call. When I answered the phone, a female voice said, "Hi."
"Who is this?" I enquired.
"This is the voice belonging to the breast you were staring at in the coffee shop this morning," came the reply.
"Oh," said I, "sorry about that. I couldn't help myself. I am sorry."
"So, what is your name, not so secret admirer," she asked.
"Umm, Robert," I said, "but most people call me Bob."
