Young Waitress With Older Customer

Young Waitress with Older Customer

A sixty-year-old man offers a recently unemployed thirty-year-old waitress a job, and invites a soon to be homeless woman to live with him.

Rebecca, Becky, by her name tag, has been my waitress for more than three-years. I stumbled over this diner while wanting to have a healthier breakfast instead of grabbing something quick and unfulfilling, such as a coffee and a muffin. From the first time that I met her, with her always in a cheerful mood, she smiles when she sees me enter the diner and sit at my regular table.

We've grown to be more than just a customer and a server. We're friends. If she only knew that I was sexually attracted to her, she'd think me a dirty old man. If she thinks of me as anything, she thinks of me as one of her regulars. Instead, I wished she'd think of me as her father. I'd love to be her daddy.

She makes my day. Putting me in high spirits for the rest of my day, I look forward to seeing her. She seems to look forward to seeing me as much as I look forward to seeing her. I enjoy our talks about the weather, the news, or something that we watched on television. Not wanting to pry, other than she's a waitress at the diner and her first name, I know little about her personal life.

Never being bold enough to ask her personal questions, I didn't want her to think that I'm a predator, a stalker, or a dirty, old man. Even though I am, of course, I didn't want her to think that I'm sexually interested in her. Something that warms my heart and quickens my pulse, even though I lust over her from afar, she's grown to be more like a friend, even a daughter, than a waitress. Just once, I'd love to hear her call me, Daddy.

###

My name is John. With me owning several companies, everyone at work calls me Mr. Johnson or sir. Other than my business partners and longtime customers, no one dares to call me John. Only my friends call me Johnny. Yet, when Becky asked my name, instead of telling her that my name was Mr. Johnson or John, putting me in a playful mood and giving her a special place in my heart, I told her that my name was Johnny. It excited me hearing Becky call me Johnny.

Sometimes, it's the little things that matter, and Becky makes me look forward, excited even, to the little things. I fall asleep thinking of her, and I awaken thinking of her. As if late for a meeting, I climb out of bed with a purpose, shower, and shave every morning.

I take my time with my appearance to look my best. As if I'm going out on a date to an expensive dinner at Luigi's instead of going to the diner for breakfast, I take my time picking out my suit, my shirt, my tie, and my pocket square. As if I'm a Marine again, I spit shine my shoes to a high gloss. Walking around with scuffed and dirty shoes belittles any man, and ruins any outfit no matter how coordinated.

Giving me purpose and pleasure, I looked forward to going to the diner every morning for breakfast. Seeing Becky while eating breakfast is one of my life's, simple, and secret desires. Of course, I could be like everyone else, stand in line to place my order, and to wait to grab a quick coffee, and muffin at Starbucks. Instead, taking my time to eat and enjoy a leisurely breakfast while being served by a young, sexy, and attractive woman is my preferred way to start my day.

###

A man of routine, with me having the same breakfast every morning, I have two cups of black coffee with my meal and not before. I ordered two pieces of buttered rye toast with jelly, two eggs scrambled, and blueberries with my oatmeal. Never bored, and never thinking of work when with Becky, I seldom stare out at the street from the window by my table. Not wanting my attention to be interrupted, I more enjoy the view that I have of Becky inside of the restaurant. With her always leaning and bending at the waist for something or someone, she has such a shapely buttock.

Not wanting to stare, not wanting to make her feel uncomfortable, I sneak quick, subtle peeks of her when she's busy and not looking. I've even taken several photos of her on my cell phone without her noticing. Over the years, I've memorized every mole, freckle, and curve of her shapely body through her navy blue and white, waitress uniform. I think I've fallen in love with her. Yes, indeed. I love Becky.

A friendly woman, she smiles and flirts with me for a bigger tip. I don't mind her doing that. In addition to paying for my ten dollar breakfast, I always leave her twenty-dollars tip. Well worth it, I'd leave her one-hundred-dollars for a tip but I don't want to call attention to my wealth. I don't want the other waitresses gossiping about me and/or vying for my attention. The last thing that I want is for someone to know about me to mug me and rob me.

###

I'm unembarrassed to admit that I love the attention that I receive from a young, beautiful, and sexy woman. Who wouldn't? At my age, I don't get much attention from many women, particularly from young and pretty women, especially from women who don't know that I'm rich. I receive more attention from divorced and widowed women my age and tax bracket.

At my station in life, everyone wants and/or expects something from me. Alone from the crowd and the hustle of everyone in a hurry to get to work, it's a relief to sit quietly while staring at my laptop, checking my emails, and eating my breakfast in peace. A bonus is having Becky waiting on me. I just love looking at her, and watching her work. She's such a good looking and friendly woman.

Wishing that I was thirty-years younger, if I was to guess her age, I guess that she was 25-years-old. Even though I'm unashamed to admit, I've masturbated over imagining her naked and having sex with me. Honestly, I could never be with a woman young enough to be my daughter.

Yet, I don't have any children. I don't even have a wife, a girlfriend, or even a dog. I've never been married. Keeping to myself, I live a quiet and introspective life alone while accumulating my vast fortune.

I've been too focused on work and financial success to clutter my life with people and their problems. That is, until I met Becky, I've never yearned to be with anyone. Now, unable to get her out of my head, while imagining her in my bed, she is my only sidetrack. I'd sacrifice everything to be with her.

I think of her every day, especially every night. Never prying into her personal life by asking her personal questions, nonetheless, I wonder if she's married. I wonder if she has children. I wonder if she has a boyfriend. Someone who looks like her must have a special man in her life. I've never seen another woman as beautiful and kind as her.

With her red hair and blue eyes, she reminds me of Christina Hendricks of Mad Men and Good Girls fame. Only, Becky doesn't have the huge F cup breasts that Christina has. Indeed, she has big breasts and if I was to guess, she has a D cup that compliments her shapely figure.

###

Nothing more serious than a dinner date, I prefer being with women who are on the same socioeconomic ladder, and who are compatible with me in my lifestyle. I have much more in common with educated and successful women. With us on the same page, our conversations about work and business are never strained. Only, tired of dating doctors and lawyers, they lack the simple and unpretentious endearment that Becky has. She's special to me.

Yet, surprisingly, taking my mind off of the worries of my day, quickening my pulse, seeing Becky for that brief moment in time while eating my breakfast makes me happy. She gives me more purpose to my life than all of the other women who surround me while vying for my attention every day. She never has to beg for my attention, she has it. Instead of talking about work and about business, we chat over less important things. She seems to enjoy talking to me as much as I enjoy talking to her.

Then, a bit older than she looks, I was surprised to learn that she was thirty-years-old. I overheard the other waitresses wishing her happy birthday and joking with her that she was an old lady now, and over the hill. Sexually attracted to her, while imagining her without her clothes and having passionate sex with me, I'm unembarrassed to admit that I'd love to bed her. Alas, nothing more than a masturbation fantasy, she'd never have sex with me in the way that I'd love to have sex with her.

Yet, no doubt, because they are wealthy, there are lots of older men with younger women. Thirty-two-years older than his wife, Rupert Murdock married Chinese born, Wendy Deng. Thirty-two-years older than her, Hugh Hefner married playmate Kimberly Conrad. Thirty-five-years older, Clint Eastwood married Dina Ruiz. Twenty-years older, Warren Beatty married Annette Benning. Michael Douglas is twenty-five-years older than his wife, Catherine Zeta Jones. David Foster is thirty-five-years older than his young bride, Katherine McPhee. Mick Jagger is 44-years older than his wife, Melanie Hamrick. Adding my name to the list, I'm thirty-years older than Becky.

With me more than three decades older than Becky, I'd fit the mold of a dirty, rich, old man. With me a billionaire, I have as much if not more money than all of the above mentioned men. I'd love to sweep Becky off of her feet by surprising her with a new car or with jewelry. Yet, she doesn't seem to be the type that can be bought with money. Daring not to try by endearing her with my wealth, I didn't want to ruin the relationship that I had with my beloved Rebecca by telling her that I was rich.

###

Over the years of her being my server, I've gotten to know her more on a personal level. I've learned that she's unmarried and has no children. Hard to believe, she doesn't even have a boyfriend. Indeed, and without a doubt, someone who looks like her should have a man in her life. Why does someone who looks like her and who is as caring as she is not have a boyfriend or a husband?

Then, something that I never considered; I wondered if she was a lesbian. She doesn't look or act lesbian but, unless she's butch, what does a lesbian woman look like and/or act like? Yet, having seen her cry over several, failed heterosexual relationships, I don't think she's lesbian. I think she's just unlucky in love and hasn't met the right man yet. I wished I was her person. If only I was younger, I'd love to be the man of her dreams.

She's about 5' 8" tall. She has long, lush, red hair with beautiful, blue eyes, and freckles. I've never been with a redhead or even a natural blonde. With nothing special about them in the way that I feel that Becky is special, all of my ex-girlfriends had brown hair or dyed blonde hair. All of my ex-girlfriends cared more about themselves and/or about my money than they cared for me.

With her ancestors, no doubt, coming to America from the Emerald Isle of Ireland, she had big, Irish, milkmaid breasts. Hard to tell her breast size beneath her uniform, I'd guess that she's a D cup or even a double D cup. Too many of the women who work with me have B cups or smaller breasts. A few of them have C cup breasts.

Certainly, one of my fetishes, I love women with big tits, the bigger the better. There's something about busty women that makes my heart skip a beat and makes my cock throb in my pants. Now that I've lusted and masturbated over Rebeca, I love tall, natural, redheaded women with blue eyes, freckles, and big tits. I love Becky.

###

Something that I'd never say out loud nor confess to anyone, relieved to finally confess it to myself, I love Becky. I do. I love her. I really do love her. I've fallen in love with my young, freckled face, busty, redheaded waitress.

Yet, sadly, in the way that I may love her, she'd never love me. I'm too old for her to love me in the way that I love her. I'm old enough to be her father.

Nonetheless, making my day, I loved seeing her every day. I love talking with her every morning. Nothing heavy about politics or what's headlined in the Wall Street Journal or in Barron's financial and investment news, I more enjoy making small talk with my waitress.

Much like winding my Patek Phillippe automatic watch and/or brushing my teeth, seeing Becky every day is something that I must do. I can't start my day until I have my dose of her. She makes my life complete and my existence worthwhile. I wish I could take her on a world cruise. Yet, I'd be happy to walk with her through the park, sit on a bench, and feed the pigeons.

Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever. The next morning, everything changed from good to bad. My time with the love of my life was coming to an end. As usual, Becky came to my table to take my order. Instead of looking happy, she looked sad. She looked like she had been crying. It hurt my heart to see her troubled.

I wanted to stand, take her in my arms, hug her, hold her, and comfort her but I didn't dare. Not wanting to ruin things by rushing things, I didn't want her to know that I was interested in her romantically. Instead, as if I was her father rather than her hoped for lover, I asked her what was wrong.

###

I looked at her with kind and caring eyes instead of with my dirty, old man, perverted stare.

"What's wrong, Becky? You look like you've been crying. If you don't mind me asking, are you okay," I asked?

Surprising me, something she's never done before, she sat across from me in my booth. Ready to confide in me, she looked as if she needed a friend. When she placed her folded hands on the table, I took her hands in my hands. The first time that I touched her, as if we were going to recite our vows to one another, she raced my pulse and made my heart swell with the love that I felt for her.

She looked like she needed a shoulder to cry on, someone to hug her, and tell her whatever it was troubling her would be okay. I wanted to hold her. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to kiss her. Then, she surprised me with what she said next.

"They're closing the diner," she said. "Friday is my last day."

Being the business man that I am, my first thought was to buy the diner to keep it open. Yet, a losing proposition, diners were disappearing like the extinct dinosaurs that they are. With everyone buying from online retailers, big department stores that have been around for decades have gone out of business, too.

"Unfortunately, with coffeeshops and fast food restaurants everywhere, no one takes the time to relax and enjoy good food," she said. "Slow down and enjoy a home cooked breakfast. Everyone is in a hurry to get to work or to go home. No one fully enjoys the moment. My brief time with Becky lengthened my life."

She looked like she was going to cry again.

"Without this job, I can't pay my rent. I'll be unemployed and homeless," she said. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

Looking as if she was going to cry, she looked up at me with sad eyes.

"My parents were killed in a car crash when I was eighteen-years-old," she said, giving me a glimpse into something so privately personal. "I couldn't afford to go to college. I don't have any skills other than being a waitress," she said. "Serving food while smiling is all that I know."

###

I patted her hand. Then, I squeezed her hands.

"Don't worry," I said.

Unable to help myself, I gave her a warm smile that bordered on a loving look. Something that I never told her, and something that she never asked me what I did for a living, I told her now.

"Don't worry, Becky. Don't you fret. Your worries are over. I can give you a job," I said with a smile. "I can give you a place to live, too."

I sat back in my booth with pride. Not a boastful man, I was about to brag to the love of my life now.

"I own several companies. Something that I never told you," I said with a pause. "I'm quite wealthy."

She looked at me with mixed feelings. Seemingly grateful that I could give her a job and a place to live, she looked at me as if she wondered what she'd have to do to repay my generosity.

"I like you, Becky. There's no strings attached to my offer of employment and a place to live. There's nothing left for you here. Remove your apron and come home with me," I said.

I smiled.

"I work from home. I can use an assistant to help me with my businesses. Moreover, my penthouse suite is plenty big enough for you to live while still enjoying your privacy," I said.

###

Too preoccupied and wrapped up in her problems to order breakfast, I quickly ordered a cup of coffee to go and a muffin, I escorted her out to my car. I always had a Lincoln Town Car, my favorite car, they are the American version of the Rolls Royce. Only quieter and more comfortable than a modern day Rolls that has given up their quiet ride comfort to speed and handling, my Lincoln Town Car has become more endearing.

Alas, Lincoln stopped making the Town Car in 2011. Yet, able to find several low mileage Lincoln Town Car Signature examples with the extended wheelbase, I bought three of them. With money no object, I found a speed shop that specializes in transforming Lincoln Town Cars to modern day Batmobiles.

For fifty-thousand-dollars, each they added SVT 600 horsepower blocks with a magnum transmissions, new gears, and suspension, redesigned the intake, changed the exhaust and headers, added blower cams, installed bigger brake kits, and added bigger wheels and tires. All this with dyno time and labor included. Then, for another twenty-thousand-dollars more, they'll paint the car any color.

I had one car painted in shiny black, the second car painted in translucent white, and the third car painted in bright, Ferrari, metallic red with black accents instead of chrome door handles and grille. I had them add shiny black, custom wheels, too. I had my own version of a hot rod Lincoln. No one would ever think that my forty-six-hundred-pound Lincoln Town Car could do sub four second zero to sixty times and a 12 second quarter mile with a top speed of 180 but it did.

Not changing the interior other than adding a darker red leather to compliment the bright red exterior, the seats that originally came with the car were plenty comfortable enough. I had them install new black leather to the black Lincoln and blue leather to the white Lincoln. Giving me more privacy, I also had them darkly tint the rear and side windows of all three cars.

###

As soon as she saw my Lincoln, she looked impressed. Unless it was an older version of the Lincoln Town Car dating back to the mid-eighties, no one has ever seen a red Lincoln Town Car before. Not having a driver or needing a bodyguard, with me keeping a low-profile, as if I was no one special, I drove her to my condo and pulled into my reserved parking space in the underground parking garage.

I have always had a thing for Lincolns. I'd never buy a German or a Japanese car after they tried to kill us in World War II. After the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, I'll never understand why Americans buy Toyotas, Hondas, and every other car made in Japan. Making no sense to me, I'll never understand Jewish people buying Audis, BMW's, Mercedes, and Maybach cars after the Nazi's tried to eradicate the Jews.

I escorted her inside of my building, which I owned, too. I introduced her to the doorman and to the man at the front desk as my new employee, even though she wasn't that, yet. I used my special elevator key to take the elevator to the penthouse suite on the fortieth floor. Clearly, she had never been in such a spacious and luxurious condo. As everyone does when they enter my condo, she walked to the window to look out at the view.

"If I lived here, I'd stare out at the view all day," she said with a laugh. "I've never seen anything like it. It's breathtakingly spectacular," she said with awe.

I smiled at her.

"I have an extra bedroom with an ensuite bathroom if you're interested," I said.