The Face In The Window

It was the lunch period and some of the employees working in the Mall shops were taking their break. Simone and her assistant Alice were putting away a few dresses recently tried on by a customer.

I should tell you that Simone is not Simone’s real name. She was baptised “Edith,” but when some years ago she opened her ladies fashions shop in the Mall, she felt that “Simone’s House of Ladies Fashions” sounded a little more classy than “Edith’s House of Ladies Fashions.” Thus, she became Simone to everyone except her late husband who had called her “Edie.”

At one point Simone looked up and saw a young man peering in at the window. It was not unknown for men to take a look at her wares, but on the other hand, it was not very usual. She considered whether he might be thinking of a present for a girl friend or mother, or perhaps he was a cross dresser. She had know a one or two of the latter who crept into her establishment when some item of ladies wear had caught their fancy.

Curious, she surreptitiously kept an eye on him, and noticed that he was in fact not looking at the window display, but endeavouring to see beyond into the shop. As she noted this, she recognised the young man as an assistant in the hardware store down the end of the Mall.

He stayed staring into the interior of the shop for about five or six minutes, then moved on.

Simone gave the matter no further thought, until next day at lunchtime, he was there again, still trying to see past the displays to the shop interior. Once more, he stayed for a few minutes, then moved on.

The next day and the next day he followed the same routine. Simone first wondered, and then began to be troubled, by this strange phenomenon. The only conclusion she could come to was that the young man was entranced by her pretty young assistant, Alice, who at seventeen drew most of the young men’s eyes as she flounced along the Mall. On questioning Alice, the girl said she did not know the young man, and had only seen him at his work in the tool department of the hardware shop. Further, she said, he had never shown any interest in her, despite her attempts to lure him.

It was Alice who finally pointed out the true nature of the situation. “He’s staring at you,” she said excitedly one day. She was right. The pair of them made a point of trying to see where the young man’s eyes focused. Simone moved around while the young man stared, and it was clear he focused on her.

Simone contemplated the situation. What was it he wanted? Why did he look at her? She was fifty-two years old, and a widow of five years. She had kept herself trim, made sure her hair was always nicely cut and dyed (Ash blonde, which seems to be a popular colour with owners of ladies wear shops and barmaids), and if her bosoms were not all that might be desired, the late Mr.Simone had enjoyed them. Out in the world a little bosomly artifice never went amiss, did it?

The young man could have been no more than nineteen or twenty, so what could he want with the mother of two and the grandmother of three? Even given her reasonable state of preservation, he could hardly want to try to date or ravish her, could he? Perhaps he was planning to rob her shop, but if he was, surely he was being just a little too obvious? Any way, she could hardly call on the constabulary because someone looked through her shop window every day for a few minutes.

After three weeks of this now unnerving situation – unnerving for Simone that is. Alice was thrilled with the sinister possibilities of this staring – Simone decided to try and beak the staring deadlock.

As the young man arrived, Simone went out to the front of her shop as if to examine the display. She smiled at the young man and said, “Hello.” The youth looked at her for a moment, then giving all the appearance of wanting to disappear into the ground, muttered, “Hello,” and now stood staring at Simone with no glass to distort the vision.

Not knowing for the moment what to say, Simone sized the youth up. He was tall – around six feet, with a slender physique – but the most striking thing about him were his eyes. Set in a reasonably nice face, they were the softest, most tender brown eyes she had ever seen. They looked at her with a sort of dog like devotion when the said canine wanted a bone.

Simone, having made her preliminary survey, decided a few more words were called for. “Do you like the display,” she asked, indicating the window. The youth, without taking his eyes from her, muttered, “Very nice.” With that he backed reluctantly away, said, “Goodbye,” and left, or perhaps “Fled” is a more appropriate word.

He was seen no more looking into the window in the following days.

Simone reentered her shop and related the event to Alice, who in any case had been watching avidly. “He definitely fancies you,” she said. “Don’t be silly,’ responded Simone, “What would he want with an old woman like me?” Alice began to say, “Some boys go for older…” but changed to “You’re not really old.”

Simone accepted and contemplated the latter compliment in Alice’s statement. “What is old anyway,” she thought. “If the spirit’s willing, the flesh would do as it was commanded."

This is perhaps the moment to point out that Simone’s husband had been a very enthusiastic lover of her flesh. In fact, he had been generally enthusiastic about female flesh. Reciprocating, Simone had enjoyed a number of liaisons over the years, but with the death of her husband, and without giving it much thought, she shut up that particular shop and concentrated her energies on selling ladies wear.

Simone’s view on sexuality in the over fifties was dictated by the commonly held notion that once past the mid-century (some would make it past forty), a woman’s days of libidinous ripeness are over. She held to this view despite evidence to the contrary when she had to masturbate at night to relieve her ungratified sexual tensions.

I wish it to be known that I do not subscribe to this view, taking my cue from the story of the man who asked his eighty-five year old mother-in-law, “Mother-in-law, when does a woman cease to feel sensual passion?” Mother-in-law replied, “My boy, you will have to ask a woman older than I.”

So, we have reached the point at which Simone is reviewing her feminine possibilities, and in the process starting to get rather firm nipples and a little wet around the crutch. Unfortunately, as I have indicated, the young man came no more to stare through the shop window.

This might have ended the whole affair, but for a new turn of events. It was Simone’s habit, after closing the shop for the day; to sip a cup of coffee at the café located in the Mall. She usually used the time to review the day’s business and other happenings.

It chanced that about a week after our hero had ceased his glass peering, he too sat drinking a cup of coffee in the café. Simone had never seen him in the café before, and with that insight for which females are renown, she knew the youth was observing her, he hoped, covertly.

Simone tried to ignore his undercover observation of her, but a warm redness overspread her countenance accompanied by the menacing throbbing of her clitoris. She told herself that she was being a disgusting old woman, and to stop acting like a nubile maiden. The throbbing increased and a wet patch developed in her panties. Without finishing her coffee she fled the café and headed for home.

That night, during her erotic relaxation session, it was the face and body of the youth that filled her fantasy. Once relieved of her burdensome excitation, she told herself that “This must stop, you are being ridiculous.” In saying this the youth came to mind, and further relief was called for.

Over the following days the youth continued to haunt the café. Simone thought she might cease patronising the facility, but after by-passing it one evening, she felt bereft of the youth’s stare, which seemed to grow ever more sad and yearning. As if to compliment this, Simone got wet ever more rapidly.

Finally, Simone decided to take the bull by the horns, or should I say, “The calf by the horns”?

Entering the café one night, and observing the youth sitting at his usual table, she strode over, stood before him, and asked, “Do you mind if I sit here?”

The youth flushed bright red and began to visibly shake, but managed to stammer out, “N.n.no.”

Simone sat, and now in full flight said, “Do you mind if I ask you your name?” “It’s...er…Jarvis,” quavered Jarvis.

“My name’s Simone,” said Simone. “I…er…know,” responded Jarvis, pretending that he was not trying to look at the top of the low cut dress Simone had selected from her stock for the occasion.

“Now look here, Jarvis,” continued Simone. “You’ve been doing a lot of staring in my direction for weeks now. I would like to know why?”

I should like to point out that as Jarvis had been doing a lot of staring for the past few moments, which staring encompassed the very visible top half of Simone’s fair bosom, his manhood had bestirred itself, stretched, and arisen. Although he sat at the other side of the table to Simone, thus rendering his nether regions invisible to Simone, Simone, with that innate sixth sense that women have, was aware of this carnal extension. Emboldened by his genital condition, Jarvis said, “I think you look lovely.”

Simone needed no further confirmation of the suspicions she had about Jarvis, and this added to her own certain knowledge about her own state of arousal, led her to think upon the sad state of this lad.

Simone understood the pain of unrequited sexual desire in passionate youth. “I have a duty towards this young fellow, “she thought. She tried not to add that she had a duty towards herself as well.

Mustering all her courage, she leaned sensuously across the table and said, “The coffee in this place is terrible. I make a much nicer cup at home. Care to join me?”

Jarvis hesitated not. “Thank you,” he said, “I would like that very much.” Off they went homemade coffeewards.

I shall not insult your intelligence by assuming you do not already know what the outcome of Jarvis’ visit to Simone’s house was. Clearly, coffee was but a minor aspect to the next hour, or two, or more. I can however give you a few details of the stimulation and response that occurred.

Simone began making the coffee in the kitchen with Jarvis standing very close to hand. Simone decided that the coffee was an irrelevancy, and of greater priority was the unzipping of Jarvis. She followed the thought with action, and joyfully found a substantial male organ lying in her hand.

Jarvis sought to reciprocate by sending a searching hand up her skirt in search of the gateway to paradise, but before he reached the goal, and by dint of Simone’s enthusiastic stimulation of his manhood, he shot his sperm all over Simone’s hand and the kitchen floor.

He was profuse in his apologies, but Simone stopped him, saying, “Never mind, we can take longer next time.”

Next time proved to be about half an hour later. Having cleaned the kitchen floor, her hand and Jarvis’s penis, they endeavored to eat each other, this ending with Simone on her knees tasting the newly constructed Jarvis organ. Simone led Jarvis into the bedroom.

Jarvis decided that revenge would be sweet, so, when they had divested themselves of their raiment, he plied his lips and tongue to Simone’s genitalia, much to the delight of both of them. Jarvis followed this by making an investment in Simone’s breasts, during which time his sperm once more made it’s presence felt, splashing democratically over Simone’s bosom and face.

Simone, long deprived of this sort of play, screamed and writhed with ecstacy. Her one fear was that they would never get to the point of joining genital forces, which union she craved. She need not have been concerned. After further ablutions, Jarvis proved his male forcefulness by producing yet another erection no less impressive than the previous two.

Simone was now lost in her sexual excitation. As Jarvis placed his manhood within her, she griped with her vaginal muscles, she pulled on his buttocks, she pushed with her hips, she wound her legs round him, all the time crying out, “Deeper, deeper.”

Jarvis endevoured to comply with this request and as I understand, succeeded mightily.

Words are said at such times and oaths proclaimed, even if they are in the main incomprehensible. “Oh God, I love you, I want…oh, oh.” “Darling, don’t stop, never leave me, kill me but don’t…ah, ah.” With these and many other words and sounds did they mesh as one.

Jarvis, having already discharged his fertilising power twice, was able to hold out at length, much to Simone’s wondering delight. Of course, the mighty climax came eventually with many heavings, screams, groans and howls.

They eventually temporarily subsided, and it was mutually agreed that, having put in such a mighty effort, and thereby exhausting himself, Jarvis should spend the night being comforted by Simone.

As I am sure you would like to know, it was thrice more.

Postscript.

Next day, and after the exchange of promises to effect that they would engage in a life long devotion to each other, they both departed to their daily labours.

At lunchtime, Simone chanced to glance out of the shop window, and her eyes fell upon Jarvis. He was standing outside the butcher’s shop opposite, staring through the window. Beyond the glazing was the buxom fifty-four year old Mavis Arbuthnot, cashier to the butcher.