Young Woman With Older Man Ch 18

Chapter 18

A cougar wearing white gloves, nylons, garter belts, and giving blowjobs

The next few days slowly drifted by until it was late Friday night, a little after 10 pm, when Marianne pulled in my driveway. She drove one of those Volvo Cross Country things. I hate Volvos, especially crossover SUV's. They're so safe, so dependable, so boring, and not much fun. I hoped she wouldn't be just like her car. After having sex with her daughter Gwen, if she was a car, she'd be a Lamborghini, brutally fast, while still sexy.

To me, there's nothing like taking my life in my hands in a rear wheel drive speedster, such as a Mustang or a Camaro, peeling out and burning some rubber, as I sling the rear end sideways, until the traction and stability control kicks in and catches it, just before it spins a donut. Now, those are real cars, especially during a first snowfall in the winter and especially with the traction and stability control turned off. Yahoo! It's more fun never knowing if I'm going to make it home alive. Hang on to your balls because, unsafe at any speed, we're going downhill on an icy road and taking dead man's curve at twice the sane speed.

Just before she arrived, I thought that I should have gotten her cell phone number because I was beginning to worry. I thought she'd be here by now. Granted it's a long drive, but it was getting late, too late for a woman to be on the road alone, especially after what had happened to Lynn. I was glad when she arrived, finally.

I watched her from the upstairs window as she pulled in the driveway. Having been so curious what she'd look like, I wanted to see what she looked like, before running down and opening the front door. I got a look at her through her windshield. Much like her daughters, Lynn and Gwen, she looked blonde and pretty. Then, I stood and watched her from my front porch and was shocked when she stepped out of the car.

Dina fucking Merrill live and in her prime. That's who she looked like. She looked just like Dina Merrill. Only, be still my heart, she had the body of Angie Dickinson. A cross between Dina Merrill and Angie Dickinson, she made me wonder what grandma looked like. Between Lynn, Gwen, and now Marianne, the gene pool in this family is amazing. My fantasy dream women all rolled into one, she had the face of Dina Merrill and the body of Angie Dickenson. Wow! Hot!

So, is that what Gwen will look like when she's nearly 60-years-old. Marianne was absolutely stunning. Truly, I figured that she'd be short and hippy and look nothing like her daughters. Boy was I wrong. The genetic makeup of Lynn and Gwen's family is spectacular. They must be Nordic because they certainly aren't one of us fat Americans. I could just see the three of them skiing down a mountain slope in the Bavarian Alps, while representing Sweden, Norway, or Denmark in the Olympics. Tall, shapely, beautiful, and blonde, unless they're from Texas, women around her just don't look like that.

Now, I know where her daughters received their beauty from because Marianne was a knockout. Definitely, she didn't look 60-years-old. Had I not known her age, I would have guessed that she was in her late forties. She looked that good.

I ran down the front steps and gave her a hug. She felt firm in my arms and when I hugged her, her perfume sexually assaulted my senses. She smelled wonderful. She smelled like a woman and not like the girls that I had been bedding, Lynn, Jamie, and Gwen.

"I love your perfume," I said breaking the hug and taking a step back. "What fragrance is it?"

"Chanel," she said.

I knew for it to smell that good that it had to be expensive. It had been a while since I had experienced the sensation of Chanel. To my nose, there's not a better perfume in the world. Now that I think about it, with Marianne born 60 years ago, it had been a while since I've been with a woman who was born more than 25 years ago. Suddenly, I've become such a dirty, old man degenerate.

I carried her overnight bag inside and gave her a quick tour of the house. She kept eyeing me out of the corner of her eye. It was a curiously coy look of interest.

"What?" I checked my fly and looked down at myself to see if there was something wrong. "Why do you keep looking at me like that?" I chuckled a smile.

"Like what?"

Refined, properly poised, and educated, she even sounded like Dina Merrill, but she had the sexy movements of Angie Dickinson.

"You look at me like you're curious about me and unsure what to make of me."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I was just trying to see what Lynn saw in you, I mean, why she'd want to be with a man much older."

"Do I look that terrible?" I said looking down at myself again.

"No, not at all," she laughed making me laugh with her. "Actually, you look quite good. Now I understand why my daughter would find you attractive and irresistible, actually. You're quite delightfully charming and fetching in a manly sort of way, much different than her Dad." She gave me another long look, this time more approving. "Being that Lynn was never close to her father, I feared she'd be looking for the Daddy she never had in dating you."

"Thank you, I think," I laughed away my awkwardness.

"You don't look 50," she said looking at me from head to toe.

"Actually, I'm not 50. I'm 49. I won't be 50 for a few months, yet."

"Well, you look 39," she said with a big smile.

"Thank you," I said beaming with her compliment. "You don't look 60."

"Actually, I'm not 60. I'm 59. I won't be 60 for a few months, yet."

"Touché," I said as we both shared a laugh. "You look 49."

"Oh, you're such a flirt, you bad boy," she said with a blush and touching my arm with her gloved hand.

Too busy noticing her, that's when I noticed them. She wore white gloves. I haven't seen a woman wear white gloves since Donna Reed of the Donna Reed Show and June Cleaver of Leave It To Beaver in the fifties and sixties. Where do you even buy those things? Creepy, scary, and erotic all at the same time. Suddenly, I imagined those white, gloved hands wrapped around my cock, as she stroked me to an erection, before she took me...stop it!

As if she was about to challenge me to a duel and slap me across the face with her glove, consumed with lust for her white gloved hand, I was transfixed watching her remove her white gloves, one, slow, sexy finger at a time. She put them in her purse, along with her vibrator and dildo, I imagined. I have to stop thinking of her like that about her. Christ, she's old enough to be my aunt or way older sister. More important than that, I needed to show some respect. She's Lynn and Gwen's mother. I can't go there. What's wrong with me?

She is very beautiful though and has a hot body for an old broad. Nearly my height, Marianne was tall, taller than both her daughters, but she wore high heels and her hair was made up higher than how her daughters wore their hair, flat to their heads. I figured without the heels and hair that she was the same height as them, 5'8" or 5'9" maybe. She was thin but shapely, a size 6 or 8. I can never tell with women, and she, judging by her side profile, was a full B cup, maybe even a small C cup, much like Lynn. She was a good looking woman, that is, for a senior citizen.

I laughed to myself suddenly having sexual thoughts of bedding Lynn and Gwen's elderly mom. That would just be wicked of me to do something like that, and, immediately, I erased the thought from my mind. Still, I couldn't help but wonder what she looked like beneath the dress, the slip, the bra, and the pantyhose. Being that she was from that era, I wondered if she wore nylons and a garter belt instead of pantyhose. Now that would be hot. Nah, other than strippers, no one wears sexy lingerie like that anymore. The erotic part of it was, instead of feeling older as I did with Gwen, I felt younger in Marianne's presence and I liked that feeling.

"What can I get you, coffee, tea or—" me, I wanted to say, but didn't dare.

"Do you have any scotch? After that long drive, I need a drink."

"Scotch?" I gave her a surprised over my shoulder look. I had pegged her for a tea sipper and not a whiskey drinker. "Are you a scotch drinker?"

"Well, I'm a little fussy as to the brand of scotch that I prefer but—"

"I have some Glenlevit that I occasionally take a dram of when I'm alone and watching television late at night and just want to relax." For fear that she'd make a related comment and think me preoccupied with things in their 20's, I didn't dare tell her the age of the scotch. If only she knew that I had sex with Gwen, too, she'd probably flee from my house.

"Glenlevit is good."

"How do you take it?"

"Straight up with just a splash of water."

"Ah, a connoisseur." I smiled. "I take it the same way. Ice ruins the taste and the bouquet." I turned to get her a scotch talking as I walked away. "You can tell a true scotch drinker by how he or she takes it."

"I'd like to freshen up a bit first, before I relax with a drink. May I use the ladies room?

"Certainly. The ladies room is down the hall. The first door on your right," I said.

When she emerged from the bathroom, I poured her drink, splashed some water in it, and handed it to her. She took a long sip as if she needed it. Probably, she did after that marathon drive from Rochester, New York to Boston.

"Very smooth." She took another small sip. "Glenlevit eighteen?"

"Twenty-one."

"I'm impressed."

I waited for her to make a twenty-something-year-old comment, but she didn't. Obviously, she had more class than that to take a cheap shot at her host.

"Yeah, well, along the way, I tried many of them. I waffled back and forth between Glenlevit 12 and Glenfiddich 12, that is, until I discovered Glenlevit 18. There's a huge difference between the 12 and the 18 but a very subtle difference between the 18 and the 21. Yet, once you go from 12 to 18, you just can't go back to 12. I received this bottle as a gift. Most people can't taste the difference between 18 and 21 and if you can't than you can save some money by sticking with the 18, but I can. The 21 is lighter and is so much smooth that it's almost syrupy sweet."

I was talking too much and talking too much about scotch. She's going to think that I'm full of myself or worse, a drinker, even worse, a drunk, when I'm not any of those things.

"Well, I see you know your scotch, as well as your women."

Hmm, what did she mean by that? Maybe she's not as classy as I thought she was. I let her remark pass. I didn't want to start a game of tit for tat. Maybe she was referring to Lynn. I wondered if she knew about Gwen. Nah, Gwen would never have sexual pillow talk with her mother about me.

"Excuse me for a moment," I said.

I got up and went to the kitchen and took out the food that I had ready in the fridge, a plate of cheese and crackers and a plate of fruit and vegetables. Now, if Gwen and Jamie were still here, I'd be opening a bottle of bubbly and we'd be doing something erotic with the fruit and vegetable plate. Suddenly, I imagined Marianne lying on my dining room table naked but for a couple of Ritz crackers on her nipples with thick celery stalks covering her pussy. I imagined her covering my cock with whipped cream, as she... Stop it! What the Hell is wrong with me?

Maybe because I was nervous being there with my never to be mother-in-law, I found myself looking at her legs, especially every time she crossed them. She had nice legs and I was horny. I was always horny. I hadn't had sex since Jamie left Sunday night and there sitting across from me was some fresh meat, albeit aged a bit, but still looking tender rather than tough.

Her legs were shaped much like Gwen's and Lynn's legs, only older and, but for the pantyhose, they looked the same. Damn, I hate pantyhose. Probably some gay fashion designer, but whoever invented pantyhose must hate heterosexual men. I wish she had worn just panties beneath her short skirt. If she just worn panties beneath that short skirt, she'd have flashed me by now, in the way her daughter Gwen did. Stop it! Jesus! What the Hell is wrong with me? She's old enough to be my...babysitter. Actually, I wouldn't mind Marianne babysitting me.

As soon as I thought the word babysitter, I thought of Kathy Conroy who used to baby sit for my daughters. I'll never forget giving her a ride home that snowy, cold night. We made out in the front seat of my car. Feeling her tits, sucking her nipples, and sticking my horny hand up her short skirt and down her panties, I made it all the way to third base, before she swatted my hand away. Instead of fucking me in the backseat of my car, she gave me a hand job and then a blowjob.

She couldn't get me off with her hand because it was so cold in the car and her hand was like ice, even with the heater on in the car, it was still freezing. Then, when she started sucking me, as I fingered her nipples, I exploded in her mouth, just as her front porch light went on and her father came out to stand on the porch, no doubt, wondering where his daughter was. If only he knew his daughter was busy blowing me, but with her head down and with me slouched down in the seat, he didn't see us. We were parked just down the street and I waited from him to go back inside, before I started my car and dropped off his daughter. Boy that was close.

Let's see, if I do the math, I was 30-years-old and Kathy was 20-years-old. Magically, there's that 10 year age difference, only the other way around, with her younger and me older. Suddenly, that ten years didn't seem too much of a hang up for me or for her back then. So, why should it bother me now, when it's reversed with me being younger than Marianne this time instead of me being older than her? Maybe I'll just think of Marianne as my babysitter babysitting for me.

Then she crossed her legs again, only this time more slowly and more deliberately. Was she purposely trying to flash me? Perhaps that first scotch went straight to her head. Then, there, as if it was a 60 mph curve ball, instead of a 100 mph fastball thrown right down the middle of home plate, I saw the top of her nylons, the clip of her garter belt, and the triangular patch of bright white panty. Oh, Baby, Mommy is an erotic, sexy bitch.

Suddenly, my cock grew to my new appreciation of her sexy lingerie and to her flashing me. Then, with the thought of her white gloves that lay hidden in her purse, I wanted her to don her sexy white gloves again. Suddenly, between her gloves and her sexy lingerie, I saw her in a new light. Hello, sexy MILF of a grandma. Only, after Lynn lost her life and our baby, she wasn't a grandmother, yet. I just hoped that Gwen was on the pill. I hope I didn't make that crazy bitch pregnant. I couldn't take a steady sexual diet of Gwen.

Now all that I could think about is Marianne flashing me her panty. Damn, I haven't seen a garter belt since the sixties. I didn't even know they still made them. She must have sent away special and ordered it from Frederick's of Hollywood, along with those white gloves. I couldn't help but wonder if she wore her lingerie especially for me. In the way that Lynn came to my room that first night to ask if she could sleep with me and in the way that Gwen allowed me to strip her naked, this evening may get interesting after all.

"May I freshen your drink?"

"Yes, that would be lovely, thank you," she said handing me the glass.

Preoccupied with the white gloves, when I saw her naked hand, I wished she was still wearing those damn, sexy gloves. I'd love to fill her gloved hand with all of me. Gees, that's enough. I need to stop thinking that way about Lynn's mother.

We sat there talking while sipping our scotches, eating cheese and crackers, and fruits and vegetables. It was getting late after 1:00 am and Marianne was working on her third scotch, a double. Actually, they were all doubles and she suddenly looked like she was feeling the effects of the drinks. Oh, shit that 21-year-old scotch has a way of sneaking up on you. Suddenly, I remembered Gwen not being able to hold her alcohol. Now, watching Marianne begin to nod off, I know where Gwen got her inability to handle her liquor.

"C'mon, let's get you off to bed," I said standing.

As soon as I said the words, C'mon, let's get you off...I thought about getting her off by masturbating her, while in bed. Stop it! I needed to focus my thoughts elsewhere. I needed to act the gentleman. This is the mother of my beloved Lynn and that wild and crazy Gwen.

"I'm not tired, yet," she said suddenly appearing wide awake. "I'm having a relaxing time talking to you." She hadn't said anything in the last ten minutes. She was nodding off. "Let's have one for the road, shall we?"

"Okay, sure." I made her a fresh drink, a small one this time and, in just a few minutes, I watched her down the last of it.

I sat in my favorite catbird seat, where I prefer sitting, when entertaining an attractive woman wearing a short skirt, while hoping she'll flash me her panty. She sat across from me on the soft sofa and I sat higher up in my Queen Anne chair. If Marianne was showing anything, I'd see it from this angle. Not one to disappoint me, towards the end of the last drink, she had become a bit careless about the arrangement of her skirt and the way that she was sitting. No longer sitting like a lady with her knees cemented closed, she was sitting with her knees apart enough to give me a continual view of her bright, white panty. Hello sexy Mama.

Especially now that her above the knee length skirt had risen to the middle of her thighs, as if she was an exhibitionist in the way that her daughter Gwen was, she was giving me a real voyeur's between her legs show of herself. Continually, she flashed me her white panty and with the scotch weaving its magic on me, too, if she wasn't shy about showing, I wasn't shy about looking. I stared at her exposed crotch, while wondering what she'd look like without her clothes and what she'd taste like with her lying on her back and her legs spread and draped down my shoulders.

It was all so very erotic seeing flashes of her nylon and garter that culminated in me seeing her bright, white panty and that further rewarded me with the display of her camel toed crotch. Between the alcohol and my innate horniness, she was turning me on a bit. Imagining that I was there with Dina Merrill and Angie Dickinson combined as one, I so wanted to sit next to her on the couch and play tongue hockey with her, while running my hand over her proud bra covered tits, before slowly running my hand down her slim waistline to the far reaches of her, where no man has touched her in years, no doubt.

With one hand feeling her breasts while fingering her nipples through her blouse and bra, I imagined running my meaty palm down and up her skirt to her panties. I imagined my long, experienced fingers pushing the edge of her panties out of the way for me to explore and deftly part her pussy lips with my probing fingertips. Stop it! Stop it, now. This is crazy.

Now, almost 2:00 am it was so very late and she was slouching again.

"You need some rest, Marianne. C'mon, let's put you to bed."

"Okay," she said now with her legs fully spread, while trying to stand up from the softness of the sofa.

"Let me give you a hand," I said with a devious smile.

After enjoying more of her panty show for a few seconds, I stood and reached beneath her arms to help her up, while feeling both sides of her bra covered breasts. Being that she was a bit drunk, figuring she wouldn't notice or think it was an accident with me being a little tipsy, too, if she did notice, I made sure that my palms brushed by the front of her bra hoping to feel her nipples, as I lifted her and I did. Either she was cold or sexually aroused by purposely having flashed me her panties, but her nipples were already erect. She had nice knockers and it felt good to feel tits again, even if it was bra clad, elderly tits.