My name is Shea and I've always had a taste for older men. When I was 19, I had the body of a grown woman: green doe eyes with thick lashes, full pink lips, long brown hair down to my waist, heavy DD's, and a tiny waist that tapered into a plump, firm ass. One month after I turned 19, my 65-year-old neighbor showed me how a real man uses a woman and introduced me to the pleasure and pain of depraved, kinky sex.
I'd saved up all of my money from my shitty waitress job so I could buy a used car as soon as I got my license: my parents were protective and after a series of failed tests, I was only now getting the independence my friends had gotten back when we were in high school. When I finally collected enough money, I proudly presented my crumpled wad of cash to the used car salesman and drove away in my new pride and joy: a beat-up yellow VW bug with peace-sign hubcaps. I had fallen in love with the car a year before, and as I drove home with the windows down, blasting the classic rock station, I had never felt more like a grown up. I pulled up to a red light as I enthusiastically sang along to "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Lepard, then glanced over as a car pulled up to the light on my driver's side.
Two men in their 40's sat in the front seat with the windows down, openly ogling my cleavage that was on full display in a tight white tank top. The passenger leaned out the window and brought his hand to his mouth while making a 'v' with his index and middle finger: his tongue slithered and flicked in my direction as the driver laughed and jeered him on. Before I realized what was happening, their car pulled away with a roar of its engine and a puff of exhaust as the light flipped to green, and I was startled by honking from a car that I hadn't even realized was behind me. I pulled away from the light, embarrassed that I had held up traffic, and my face flushed as I realized how sexually explicit the entire ordeal had been. Those men were easily 25 years older than me, but they had so clearly wanted to fuck me. The thought made me blush hard with shame, heat spreading across my face, neck, and chest.
I didn't enjoy the attention my body got from the general public: most men, even the older ones, would always end up staring at my tits instead of looking me in the eye like a human being. My body made me feel inherently sexual, and clothes that looked normal on other girls would cling to my curves in lewd, inappropriate ways that made men stare and boys lose their minds. Over the years, I have learned to appreciate the power that my body grants me over men, but as an insecure teenager, being defined by my body made me feel like nothing more than a piece of meat. I was vulnerable and insecure and perfect prey for my neighbor, Mr. Robertson, who would use my insecurities against me to spark the torrid affair that would dictate my sexual preferences for the rest of my life.
As I pulled into my driveway, I noticed Mr. Robertson rinsing off his car next door. He waved pleasantly and I forced a smile, sitting in my car while I tried to think up a strategy to avoid talking to him. The bearded old geezer was 65 and an absolute pervert: he had begun to openly stare at my body as soon as I started to develop, making comments about "how much I've grown" and "what a fine young woman I'd become." He was an enormous man, towering almost a full foot taller than me at 6'4" and weighing at least 275 pounds. His hairy chest was always bare and a big beer gut hung down over his khaki shorts. I realized that he wouldn't be going inside any time soon, so I resigned myself to talking to him and slowly climbed out of my car: "Hi Mr. Robertson."
"Well hello there sweetheart, don't you look delicious today?"
As usual, I was taken aback by how crudely he spoke to me when my parents weren't around. He saved his more openly sexual comments for our one-on-one encounters in the front yard when I got home from community college: Mr. Robertson was retired and spent most of his time watching the neighborhood comings and goings. In the last few months, he had started rinsing off his car every day around when I got home from school so he had an excuse to catch me alone in a conversation. Most days, I'd get home several before either of my parents got off work and I usually savored my alone time, but Mr. Robertson had been talking to me more and more as my 19th birthday drew near. He couldn't do anything bad while we stood in our front yards in broad daylight, but that never stopped him from eye-raping me every time we spoke. In the deepest corner of my brain, I had to admit it had started to turn me on: at night, I'd ride and grind on a firm, bumpy memory foam pillow as I imagined his eyes on my body, and usually the thought alone was enough to make me cum. Something about the taboo of being desired by such an old man turned me on in a way I had never experienced before. He was disgusting and lecherous, and that's exactly what made it hot. The fantasy filled me with shame and confusion, which made me both dread and savor coming home every afternoon.
As per usual, Mr. Robertson's eyes slipped down to my cleavage as I approached him at his car. He turned to face me and in the same movement pivoted the hose in my direction, spraying my face and front with cold water. I sputtered and coughed, wiping water from my eyes as he apologized:
"Oh my dear! I'm so sorry, love. These old bones don't follow orders the way they used to, my hand must have slipped."
Despite his apologies, as I blinked the water out of my eyes and refocused on him, he was smiling faintly and still staring intently down at my breasts. I looked down and immediately crossed my arms over my chest: the water had soaked my white tank top and sports bra to the point that they were almost transparent. My areolas showed clearly through the wet fabric, the thick buds of my nipples erect and on display. As I covered myself, I glanced over and realized Mr. Robertson had an erection, and I was shocked by the sheer size of the outline I could see through his shorts: I could never have imagined he was packing that much heat, especially at his age.
A grin spread across the old man's face as he noticed my stunned gaze on his cock.
"You see that, honey? It's all for you, you know."
I backed away, blushing hard and turning away to avoid eye contact. I was horrified: the man had flirted with me before, but he had never made such openly sexual remarks in my presence. I rushed across the lawn and made a beeline for my house about 50 yards away. I made it all the way to the door, still clutching my own tits, before I realized that I had dropped my keys in the rush to cover myself from Mr. Robertson's predatory gaze. I started to cry with frustration at the realization that the solution to both problems lay in Mr. Robertson's front yard. After a few minutes, I steeled myself and walked back up the road towards his secluded house, driveway empty and hose abandoned on the pavement. I sighed with relief that Mr. Robertson had gone inside, but my keys were nowhere to be found. I checked my car, my purse, and even the road between our driveways, but eventually I acknowledged the truth I had known all along: Mr. Robertson had picked up my keys and was waiting for me to knock on his door, wet and vulnerable and asking for his assistance.
As I approached the house, I saw his outline looming in the windows next to the door. Before I could knock, the front door swung open and Mr. Robertson's enormous frame filled the doorway, one arm extended and dangling my keychain only a few inches from my face.
"Lose something, sweetheart?"
I released the grip on my chest and tried to quickly grab the keys, but the man jerked them out of reach.
"What, no thank you? You usually have such good manners."
I blushed hard at his taunting and replied:
"Thank you for getting my keys, sir. May I please have them back? I need to go change."
He chuckled, his eyes lingering on my chest as I trembled from fear and some tiny bit of anticipation.
"'Sir.' I like that. Why don't you come in and give an old man some company? You and your mother used to come by for tea. I'm sure I have a shirt you can throw on while the water boils."
At the mention of my mother, I dropped my gaze and steeled myself. I knew if I refused his offer, he would tell my mother I was rude to him and I would never hear the end of it. I had no choice but to squeeze past him into the dark house. He didn't move from the door as I entered, forcing me to brush up against his belly and obvious erection as I entered the sparsely decorated living room.
"First things first, let's get you out of those wet clothes."
I shivered as he grabbed my arm and led me towards the bedroom. His hands were massive, easily encompassing my entire upper arm. I stood by the foot of an enormous four-poster bed as he rummaged around in a closet, producing a series of massive t-shirts.
"Here you go, throw this one on. I actually meant to give it to you as a gift for your birthday, anyway. Last month, wasn't it? 19 years old--how the time flies."
I barely registered that he knew my birthday and my age off the top of his head. I'd lived my whole life in the house next door, and Mr. Robertson had been our neighbor for as long as I could remember. The black tank top he threw me was significantly smaller than any of the other items, and I realized he must have bought it specifically for me. Before I could untwist it to read the white writing on the front, Mr. Robertson had slipped out of the room and closed the door. I was surprised that he had left so quickly when he knew I would have to shed my clothes: between the hose and coercing me into his house, he was being much bolder than he ever had before. I'd have thought he would try a lot harder to get me undressed while he had the opportunity.
I shed my soaked tank top and sports bra, finally shaking open the dry shirt to read the inscription. I gasped in shock at the words:
"Daddy's Little Slut"
It all suddenly made sense. He was getting off on having me here, under his control. I'd left my purse with my phone in the passenger seat of my car, so now that I was in his house, I couldn't call for help and no one would realize I was gone for at least 4 or 5 hours. He had plenty of time to do whatever he wanted to me: I was caught in his trap, waiting for him to use me for whatever sick purposes he'd dreamed up over the years.
Despite the fear and strange arousal that pulsed through me, I flushed with anger. There was no way I'd let him manipulate me that easily. I grabbed one of the massive t-shirts thrown on the bed and put in on instead. I steeled myself and opened the door back to the living room.
Mr. Robertson was sitting on the couch in a pair of white briefs that did nothing to conceal the massive, pulsing erection poking up from beneath his belly. His gaze darkened as eyes raked over my concealed body, and the anger in his tone filled me with a cold shot of pure fear as he growled:
"And what, exactly, was wrong with the shirt I instructed you to put on?"
"You know exactly what. I'm not playing this sick fucking game with you, you nasty old pervert."
"Pervert?" Mr. Robertson shot to his feet with surprising speed, crossing the distance between us in two long strides. Alarmed, I backed into the wall behind me, and he placed a hand on either side of my head to block me in. He leaned down close to my face and nearly whispered:
"Pervert? Oh, sweetheart...."
Mr. Robertson trailed off as one of his hands gently gripped my hair and pivoted my head to the side, exposing my throat to him in an animalistic show of submission. His other hand moved down and gripped the hem of the t-shirt, slowly pulling it upwards above my tits. The man swore softly as my breasts slipped free of the loose fabric, and in one motion, he released my hair and whipped the shirt completely off my body. His hands returned to my ribcage and he gripped me tightly but avoided touching my breasts.
"I'll remind you that the age of concent is 18, and today is your 19th birthday, correct? Anyway, look at you--you're a woman now. And women have needs. Let me make your body feel good, baby. I'll show you how good it can feel."
I shuddered at his breath on my face and his hands on my body. I was completely overwhelmed and mortified: what was I supposed to do? He had me completely at his mercy. There was nothing I could do but tremble as his hands slowly moved across my body, avoiding my breasts and pussy but exploring basically everywhere else. When he had caressed every inch, he abruptly backed away and looked over me again with dark, hungry eyes.
