The Next Thing

The Next Thing

Author's Note:

I thought about putting this story in the Exhibitionist & Voyeur category, but thinking of the readers who most likely will relate to the protagonist, Charles, it belongs in the Mature category. In this story you will get to know him far better than you will get to know the female character, Allie, and that may not satisfy all readers. Furthermore, compared to many stories on this site, the ETI (Explicitness and Titillation Index) is relatively low. Anyone who might have read some of my previous work may notice that the voice I've used here is stiff with some long, convoluted and sometimes incompletely formed sentences. I assure you that this is intentional and is intended to reinforce certain character traits of the protagonist. As always, I hope you enjoy it and if you can provide constructive criticism, please do. Thank you.

~

Charles, although he had been absorbed in his book, had been attentive enough to notice that Allie had come into the room. Fortunately, he had raised his eyes to her and it became immediately clear that he should close his book and set it down.

That he should stop reading was because Allie, apparently with quite some purpose, had taken up a position directly in front of him, striking what was obviously a pose, looking a bit flushed from her bath and with mischief in her eyes. What had really caught Charles' attention was that she was wrapped in just a towel that barely covered her.

Evidently she has decided that this is the next thing in the progression of things, Charles thought.

He wondered when she thought this one up. He pictured her laying back in the bath, going over it in her mind, imagining how it all would unfold. Or perhaps she'd thought it through earlier in the day, maybe as she rode her bicycle back to her condo after an appointment with the last of today's clients. Maybe the idea of it had come at the start of the day while she was at her gym.

Or maybe he was underestimating her and this posing thing had been planned long ago, perhaps in the days following The Long Talk, and that made it more than two weeks ago. After all, that she was posed in front of him covered only by a towel was just the latest thing in a whole series of things. Although it wasn't yet clear to Charles exactly what Allie's ultimate goal was, what was clear was that he had become some kind of project for her and that she had concluded that, whatever the goal, it would have to be achieved through the setting out of a kind of sexual curriculum focused upon him, a planned sequence of things, each one ramping up a small step from the previous, small enough that each thing would feel organic, natural.

In the beginning, none of these things along the path had felt in the least natural or organic to Charles. There was in particular one thing that she had done, albeit prior to The Long Talk, in fact, precipitating it, the time when Allie had leaned in for a first kiss, having simultaneously placed her thirty-six year old hand on the front of his pants to feel for his seventy-two year old cock.

Immediately Charles' head had exploded, bursting with more than enough revulsion for the two of them over the creepiness of this, shocked, embarrassed and aghast that this smart, energetic and beautiful young woman who could have had any man she wanted, a woman with a bright everything ahead of her, would think it a good idea to kiss, let alone grope, a crusty old bugger like him, a man with an arthritic hip, a man who was grey where he wasn't bald, a man who was wrinkled, spotted, a man with a sagging chest and ass and a little bit of a paunch, a man who might very well have had the old peoples' smell.

"No! Allison!" he had protested, forgetting for a moment that this is what he had called her when theirs was still a business relationship, before she became Allie to him. He was utterly appalled at the prospect of such intimacy with her, a kiss and sexual touch that tore across a forbidden boundary between the deep and growing affection he felt for her, a state that he could certainly acknowledge if he were being honest with himself, to something that might have been a prelude to... He couldn't even complete the thought.

The days of sex were behind him he was sure, certainly since Miriam had passed so many years ago, Charles had thought after he had had time to process what had happened. Even in his marriage with Miri, although his interest was always the greater of the two of them, after their failed attempts at having children, their sex had become rather perfunctory and as Miri's interest had waned even further, Charles had not imposed himself upon her. Then, of course, there came the sad day that she was gone and he was alone.

In fact, in the years after Miriam had passed, Charles had thought searchingly about his declining sexuality. He had come to believe that one's desire and one's capacity for arousal were two separate things even if they were somehow intertwined. The exact relationship between desire and arousal was something he had not been able to fully ascertain. Nonetheless Charles had reflected upon the desire piece as it related to himself and acknowledged that it seemed to have ebbed away to nothing. Yes, he could still appreciate a woman's beauty but it was different somehow and disconnected from arousal or from sexual attraction, as if a woman's beauty were for other men, for a certain kind of man, for a man led around through life by his cock, and not for him.

As for lack of arousal, his inability to have sexual erections, he was convinced that this was normal, simply a physical thing, a function of the number of trips he had made around the sun, nothing more than a matter of too many birthdays.

On the night he had pulled away so sharply when Allie had tried to kiss him, his head filled with these thoughts, he had seen that his rejection had wounded her, her face strained and her eyes filling as she had turned away and hurriedly left his home. Seeing her so hurt, embarrassed and unhappy, all this after some weeks of feeling a warm and deepening bond with her, he had felt huge remorse.

Two days later it had been Allie who had moved to recover the relationship, without seeing or speaking with him, quietly placing a bottle of good single malt Scotch at the doorstep of his studio together with a cryptic note: I'm ready if you are.

And he had been ready, at least for talking if nothing else and it had been The Long Talk that had salvaged not only what they had begun but also had cleared a path for some kind of future between them, an emotional and perhaps spiritual relationship at the very least, their age difference be damned. Somewhere near the beginning of The Long Talk, once both Charles and Allie had settled in to the reality that such an intimate sharing of feelings could comfortably ensue, Charles had been about to say that for weeks he had been unable to get her out of his mind, that the best part of every day was when he first set eyes on her, or when seeing her number on his phone, or a text or an email. But just at that same moment, just as Charles had been mustering the courage to make such an intimate disclosure, Allie had said simply, I think about you all the time. I can't stop thinking about you. This had not exploded Charles' head but it had definitely melted his heart and affirmed all his feelings for her.

The Long Talk, a talk so purely honest, a talk that had revealed with great certainty that there was a deep connection, a connection that bridged the huge age difference between them, had ended in what Charles felt had been one of the most deeply intimate moments of his entire life. They had stood before each other, their hands on each other's waists, a stance that might usually have led to a kiss or a hug, but it was neither as, instead, they each had closed their eyes and simply touched their foreheads together silently in deep connection for many long minutes.

However, as reassuring as The Long Talk had been, Charles struggled with the remaining ambiguity of what was to be, if anything at all, of a physical relationship because, except for their having touched foreheads so intimately, this subject had been skirted around but not fully resolved. As a man of a certain age and generation, and being somewhat uncomfortable discussing sexual matters, perhaps he had not been sufficiently clear with Allie about his extinct sexuality and, er, difficulties, something that she would discover for herself soon enough if she tried. As for Allie, having far fewer inhibitions about discussing sexual matters than did Charles, all she said was, I'm thirty-six years old, in my prime, and I have needs. Perhaps it had been a case of emotional overload after so long a time in the previous discussions, but this last disclosure had not been explored any further during The Long Talk, hence the ambiguous future.

In any event, Charles had speculated that it was after The Long Talk that Allie had decided that the best approach to meeting her needs would be to lay out a plan. And if he was correct in this, what of it? A plan for what exactly? His feelings for her notwithstanding, and despite his sincere attempts to imagine even mildly sexual scenarios between the two of them, the same doubts and reservations as before boiled up within him. Under the circumstances, arousal and with it, meeting her needs, seemed like an impossibility.

But right now, here, is this latest thing in Allie's planned sequence of things, her posing in only a towel in front of him, Charles thought. He supposed that it was good that, at least thus far in the posing with a towel thing with all that it foretold, his head was not exploding. After all, in the time between the hand on his cock thing and this posing with the towel thing, including the important and foundational Long Talk, there had been several other things. He had to admit that the succession of these several things, particularly those that were more recent, and progressing as they did along a gentle path of increased physical intimacy, were not as shocking as that first thing of the hand on the cock. Furthermore, Charles imagined that each one of the succession of things was meant to reassure him that what was happening was not only real, but it was not disgusting, and it was not creepy, but was actually more than simply permissible and was perfectly aligned with the needs Allie had claimed to have. In short, the things reflected Allie's honest expression of desire. Perhaps, Charles thought, she is right. Perhaps this is progress.

The question remained, however, progress toward what, and seeing Allie posed in front of him he was quite sure that he remained unready, at least for now, for sexual congress between himself and this much younger woman. Seeing Allie's mischievous, challenging smile, his mind flashed that perhaps it would be best if he could screw up his courage to initiate a followup Long Talk, say, a Long Talk V2.0, for him probably requiring lubrication by alcohol, in which the vision, goals, objectives, policies, procedures and specific roles in some kind of physical relationship, a relationship that might lead to an orgasm for one but not both of them, could be openly discussed and resolved. Importantly for his own wellbeing, he would need to negotiate a process in which no heads would explode.

So here and now Allie was in front of him, mere weeks after they had met for the first time, staring intensely at him, as if with only her eyes she could penetrate into the back of his skull and dismantle the edifice of his sexual doubts and reservations not to mention his physical limitations. Slowly she moved her hands from her sides to her hair that she had clipped up at the back for her bath. Now she let her hair fall and Charles watched it cascade loosely around her neck and shoulders. She gave her head a small shake and now her beautiful dark hair appeared untamed as if signalling that propriety is for the world outside, but not here in her living room where anything, everything, was a possibility. With the small challenging smile on her face the message was clear: let the fun begin.

As if he were a drowning man not knowing how to swim in the erotic ocean that Allie was stirring up in front of him, Charles' experiences with her began to flash through his mind. They were like highlights snipped from a film, moments recalled, images, sights, sounds, and not the least, powerful feelings.

There, in his mind, their first business meeting, the day she came to his studio to get to know him and his little post-retirement guitar-making business so that she could help him with branding it. The way she had dismounted from her bicycle in his driveway, skilled and confident, looking fit, fresh and radiant as she took off her helmet and shook out her hair, the precursor to the way she had just let her hair down here tonight. How pretty she was, so attractive, so appealing, this woman whose beauty derived from her vitality, her spark, a woman who looked as if she took care of herself without spending time in front of the mirror. Her slender body, her carriage, her graceful movement. She must be making some man very happy, he had thought...

There, in his studio, the look of wonder in her eyes, her sudden intake of breath, the way she held her hands to her chest in awe when he showed her the guitar soundboard rosette he had just finished. The way her reaction made him feel, not just another old guy whose hobby was making guitars. Validating him with her responses, her questions, her sincere interest, filling him with joy. And there, the way she laughed so easily at his little jokes that day, the comfort he felt in making them and how easy it seemed just to talk with her, how their different stages of life were of no significance...

There, the long, intimate talk over the phone a day later, more than two hours of sharing their deep love of music, a cherished thing they had in common, her cryptic reference, could it have been flirtatious, to a musical tattoo that she could not show him but adding, at least not yet. Sharing with her how the guitars he made were his contribution to music, his work of value solely in supporting the real artists, ultimately only trying to bring the musicians their own happiness. Talking about striving for the ideal, his perfectionism, his artistic commitment and, as he spoke, feeling as if she truly understood. And eventually, reluctantly, ending the call, overwhelmed with the feeling of true connection and that he wanted more time with her...

There, her phone call, so unexpected, a call that came a week after their business together had been concluded, her invoice paid and his new brand ready for use, when he had thought they would not see or hear from each other again. Allison to him when they had worked together, but now suddenly over the phone it is, My friends call me Allie. And after this and an awkward pause, Would you like to have dinner, she had asked, her voice on the phone not so confident this time, Charles hearing the little girl in her unsure of herself, trying to suppress the fear of rejection in her voice. And at this his head exploding for the first time with her. Why? Why would a beautiful young woman want to spend time with me, an old man? But then his own voice, true to the obsession he had felt about her for weeks, hearing his own voice as if it were disembodied, yes, yes, I would love to have dinner with you...

And another memory, there, after their dinner when they had walked together, Allie putting her arm in his. That she just went ahead and did this, that she was so comfortable to do so and to lean against him as they walked, for her this minimal physical contact of no consequence. But for Charles something that had been profoundly intimate, so foreign to him after so many years of being alone, nothing but handshakes and perfunctory social hugs in his life since Miriam had passed, and realizing suddenly how much he missed the human connection of sincere, intimate, personal touch...

And now, standing just out of reach in front of him, with her hands moving to the towel as if to unwrap herself, Allie had finally broken her gaze and slowly turned away from him. She paused there, a different pose now, this time looking over her shoulder toward him with her weight on one leg and the other bent and set slightly apart, showing him that shapely leg, putting it on display for him, wanting him to look at its slender shape. Such a lovely sight, so beautiful, the curve of her calf, her slender ankle, Charles thought.

Again his mind flashed with vivid memories, the succession of things she had done after The Long Talk. There, having coffee for the first time at her condo, sitting together on her couch just talking, but then she had gone silent and had laid her hand on his arm, leaving it there, stroking her thumb back and forth over the material of his shirt, the smallest of caresses but so tender, so intentional, so welcome. And in a moment, her eyes on his, lifting her hand to tenderly touch his face. Her small reassuring smile...

There, at the doorstep of her condo after The Long Talk and another dinner out, turning to him expectantly, her face lifted to his, waiting. But he had baulked. I'm not sure... he had said. Her reassuring, Try not to overthink it, and how so perceptively she had seen that he didn't know how not to think, her tender, understanding words, Try not to think, just try to feel. And she had lifted her hand and placed it gently at the back of his head and drawn his lips to hers. The touch of her soft lips, a pause and then another, lingering a moment, feeling her lips part to let him into her soul, to let her into his, and the merest touch of her tongue...

There, curled up together on his couch watching a movie on the television. His arm had been around her and she had nestled against him. The characters on the screen were making love and she had taken his hand and guided it to her breast over her shirt, holding it there. The softness of her breast, the perfection of the way it filled his hand...

And there, a few nights ago, sitting in the dim light on this very same couch, when she had kissed him tenderly and again placed her hand on him, this time without his protest. And though her hand had found him, though her fingers had passed over his length, had gently pressed and carressed him, he had not felt that spark of arousal. But neither had he felt embarrassment. No, it was sadness that he felt, sadness because in his deeply ingrained attitudes, beliefs held over the many decades of his adult life, physical intimacy leading to arousal ought to have been mutual, shared, balanced between the intimate partners and here he was, still unable to respond.

But in yet another act of tender kindness Allie had again reassured him with another kiss and with her simple, patient words, It's okay, we'll go slower...

And there, two nights ago on the couch in his living room, the space lit by a single guttering candle that Allie had set out, she had kissed him again, had touched him again and when his disappointment in his own inability to respond again had begun to swell inside him, she had taken a different lead, kissing his ear and breathing into it that she wanted him to touch her, that she needed him to feel her skin, showing him something new, physical intimacy that was not symmetrical in the way that he thought it must always be.

She had lain down on the couch with her head in his lap. Gazing up into his eyes, she had slowly undone the buttons on her shirt and opened it. The glow of the candle's soft light, flickering, throwing what he saw into gentle motion, the warm golden tone of her skin. The way she had unfastened her bra at the front, showing him her naked breasts, her nipples, perfection. The way she had taken his hand to her chest, guiding him, telling him what she liked and showing him how to touch her, how to trace just two finger tips over her her chest, her collarbones, her neck and then on to the softness of her breasts, slowly circling his fingertips over them, nearing her nipples but teasing, teasing for long moments until, in the moment when she filled her lungs and arched her back in need, he passed his fingers over her nipples back and forth, back and forth. Her sighs, soft moans...