[Joseph S. is 22. He's tall and striking looking, well-built, sharp blue eyes, and a warm, genial smile. He was referred b Dr. B. of Yorba Linda. Joe was very relaxed during our interview. Summary of interview follows.]
Sure, I'll tell you my story but it's not a pretty one. Here's the deal. My mother was sixteen when she had me. Her parents kicked her out of the house and she went to live with my old man. That lasted about a month. Because my dad's parents disowned her after he left, mom went on welfare before I was born. When I was two, she found a job as a maid at one of those big hotels downton. I remember when I was a little kid, maybe seven or eight, that I swore I'd get back at the people who'd made my mom's life so hard. Unfortunately, my old man - - who I saw twice in my life - - croaked by the time I was 14.
Over the next couple of years, I began to develop a plan. I started researching my old man's family. His mother and father were bigwigs in San Francisco. That part was easy. But then, after paying one of those internet people search companies, I discovered something interesting. My dad's mother had given birth to my dad when she was 17. She'd married my grandfather that same year. Maybe, I thought, she was pissed at my mom and dad because they were repeating grandad's and grandmom's bad habits.
I turned 21 in the spring and decided to launch my plan. It was simple: I'd go to north to San Francisco, show up on my grandparents' doorstep, demand recognition and money. I'd threaten them with going to the media if they said no. Like I said, they were bigwigs.
I left for San Fran in the middle of June, used my savings from my part-time jobs in high school, rented a cheap room in the worst part of the city, and started making my moves. I was staking out my grandparents' house on a bright, cool day when I saw an older woman leave the house and get into a sleek black mercedes. I followed her in my car. She headed downtown and pulled into a parking lot. I followed her and parked a couple of rows away. Then, I followed her out of the lot, down the street, and into a swanky department store. She headed for the perfume counter. I trailed along behind her.
The woman looked to be in her mid-fifties. She was very well-preserved, her thin waist and round bottom nicely accented by her black dress. She had killer legs and as I made my way around the counter opposite her, I saw a lovely, full bosom. She had white hair, swept up off her neck, large, blue eyes and full, red lips. I recognized her from my research: this was my grandmother alright, and she was a hot-looking woman. I felt myself start to sweat and felt a familiar stirring in my pants. Shit. Suddenly, the woman shifted her eyes from the saleslady talking to her and looked directly at me. Our eyes met and I gulped. Slowly, a smile spread over her face and, feeling the blood shoot to my cheeks, I wanly smiled back at her. Embarassed, I looked down at the counter in front of me. When I looked up, the woman had gone.
As I wandered the streets of downtown San Francisco that afternoon, I felt confused and desperate. I wanted revenge. But at the same time, I had these other, odd desires. My grandmother had such an electrifying smile. Her eyes sparkled so brilliantly when they met mine. She was such a beautiful woman - - full and fleshy. As I walked I slowly began to realize that I could satisfy both desires; I began to plan a revenge so perverse and so shocking that it would forever satisfy my long-simmering rage.
The next day, I waited again for her to leave the house. At about the same time as the day before, she got into her mercedes. Again, she traveled downtown. This time, she stopped in at a bookstore. Again, I followed her inside. She had made her way to the back of the store and was talking with a guy who looked like he might be the owner or manager. I pulled a book off the bestseller's rack and waited at the front of the store. Sure enough, three or four minutes later, I sensed someone just to my right. I turned my head and there she was, my grandmother, running her eyes over the bestsellers. I swallowed and made my move.
"My friends say this is a good read," I turned and said to her, offering her the book in my hands.
She smiled in return. "Really," she answered, taking the book from my hands and fastening her eyes on me and not the book. "What's it about?"
"It's a love story," I replied, turning on my most engaging smile. "But not your usual love story."
"Not usual," she said, her bright eyes wide. "That sounds interesting."
"Yes," I said. "It's about a relationship between an older man and a young woman. It's very steamy."
At my words, her breasts rose in a sharp, little intake of breath. As she looked at me, I slowly ran my eyes down her body, from her lips, along her neck, down over her full breasts, past her belly, across her hips, and down her shapely legs to her black pumps. Then, more slowly, I swept my eyes back up, finally locking my gaze with hers. I felt energy surging between us and I started to feel that first hint of physical desperation, the kind of tang you feel in the air before a summer thunderstorm.
"My name is Elsa," she said, extending her hand. "Elsa Samuels."
"I'm Bob," I replied, taking her hand in mine. "Bob Williams. And, I'm pleased to meet you . . . Elsa."
Still allowing me to hold her hand, she said, "Bob, you appear to be very well-read for such a young man."
"I am," I laughed. "But I'm also a very hungry young man . . . on my lunch break. Have you eaten lunch yet?"
Elsa blushed and stammered that she'd like to but couldn't. She had an appointment. I smiled. I told her how much I enjoyed meeting her. She agreed and then turned to leave. As she made the door, I scooped up the book she'd given back to me, ran to the counter and paid for it. I whipped out a pen and scribbled my cell number on the front page of the book and then ran out of the shop. There was Elsa, clicking along on her high heels and just about to turn the corner. I ran toward her, rounded the corner, and slowed down a bit. As I came astride of her, I turned and she stopped in surprise.
"Here," I told her. "Your forgot your book."
Too surprised to respond, she grasped the book I shoved into her hands. I turned and walked away.
That night I lay in my bed in my crummy room and replayed the day's events, grinning as I relished the shocked look on her face when I overtook her on the sidewalk. Then, as I recalled the plush outlines of her body and her broad smile, I felt my cock uncoiling in my boxers. I grabbed my dick and jerked slowly as I remembered those luscious breasts and that full, sexy ass. I fell asleep, cock in hand, jism splashed on my sheets
I didn't hear anything from Elsa for several days. Then, one Saturday as I was running in Golden Gate Park my cell rang. I stopped, panting.
"Hello," I gasped.
"Oh, Bob, if I caught you at a bad time."
It was Elsa.
"No," I answered, laughing. "I'm jogging. How are you? I was hoping you'd call."
Elsa laughed.
"I'm fine, thanks."
"How was the book?" I asked.
"Oh," she giggled. "The book was very weakly plotted, had unbelievable characters, but . . . was very, very steamy."