A shy and introverted boy had his fantasies come alive during the summer of 1973.
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Chapter One: My Grandma.
I love my Grandma, and while I'm sure most other people would say the same thing about their own, I mean it. I love her. Always have, and as I grew older, my love for her changed into something much more intense. A love so strong that when summer came around each year, I not only didn't dread visiting her, I looked forward to it.
My folks were probably as happy as I was to see me go visit her, as it got their nerd son out of their sight so they could do whatever they wanted in my absence. Since all I usually did was hang around the house and read, I'm sure I was in the way of a lot of stuff that parents like to do.
My yearly visit had evolved from a week to two weeks, and now pretty much took over the entire summer. College was waiting on the other end of the season, but for July and most of August, I was going to be Grandma's albatross.
That was fine with her, my grandmother would always say when I called myself that, and it was her idea for me to eventually spend the whole summer with her. An idea that I jumped on the second it was offered, and I relished the chance to be "Grandma's favorite boy," once again, even if I was a man now, at least chronologically.
Her name was Nancy Setzer, and had been a widow for almost a dozen years, Grandpa having passed away so long ago I didn't even remember him. She had stayed in the same house after he died, and I always looked up to her for being able to keep up with things on the little farm so well despite being alone.
I had always looked up to her for another reason; a much simpler one. Grandma Nancy was close to six foot tall, and as I made my yearly visits I would always say that I was going to be as tall as she was by next summer, and she would make little marks on the wall to show my height every year.
Now I had come to realize that wasn't going to happen, and even though Grandma had stopped suggesting that I run over to the wall each year to mark off my height when I first got there, I insisted on renewing the ritual once again upon my arrival.
"You're a little taller again this year," Grandma said after making another line on the wall about an inch above the last one, and I made a mock cheer even though I knew that she had cheated a little bit, because 5'5" was what I was and what I would likely be for the rest of my life.
At least here I was Richie, unlike at home where my friends would call me by my nickname, Pee Wee. Needless to say I loathed the moniker, and as much as it hurt to hear my supposed pals call me that, the worst was when my mother called me that one day.
Accidentally, of course. It had just slipped, and although she apologized profusely and I waved it off as being nothing, it hurt. Nobody wants to be called Pee Wee, runt, half-pint, or any one of the many names a lot of people had for me. Here with Grandma, I was Richie.
So I continued to look up to my Grandma, literally and figuratively, and that didn't bother me a bit. Even as she rapidly approached 60, she was still a beautiful woman who could pass for at least ten years younger, and that wasn't just a grandson talking. I was an aficionado of older women, having always found myself attracted to them for whatever reason, and I knew she was still beautiful.
That first afternoon back I had joined her out in the backyard as she hung up the laundry on the clothes line. It had been a ritual of ours for as long as I could remember, and it was one of the highlights of the summer for me.
Grandma was wearing a pair of jeans that had been turned into shorts, and she still had nice, shapely legs that were just beginning to tan a little. They would be golden brown before the summer was done, just like her arms would be.
I could easily imagine her back in her college days, playing basketball for her school back when women's athletics were in their infancy, and imagined what terror she brought to any of the dainty women who dared try to drive the lane on her with her wingspan.
The sleeveless blouse she was wearing showcased those incredible arms, which were beautifully toned for a woman of any age. Although they had lost a little of the hint of muscularity that she possessed earlier in her life, they were still firm and well shaped with little of the hanging skin that occurs as women age.
Now, as I dutifully held the laundry basket, Grandma took a towel from me and reached up to pin it up on the cord, and as usual my eyes went directly to her armpits which were fully exposed with the casual lifting of her arms.
All was right with the world, I thought to myself as my eyes took in the delightful sight of the long wisps of light brown hair that were nestled in the gentle hollows of her underarms. The color of her armpit hair was now a sharp contrast to the hair on her head, which had become silver in hue. I shifted my feet as my cock surged in the tight confines of my jeans, becoming so hard that I thought it would rip through the denim.
Why did her underarms excite me so, I wondered as any pretense of not actually looking at her vanished and I stood there staring at this most erotic sight. Why was I so disappointed a few years ago when I saw them smooth and hairless,the result of her having shaved them before I had arrived? While it had provided an interesting diversion for me to keep close watch over the summer as the smoothness was replaced first by peach fuzz and then by stubble, it just wasn't the same as her natural beauty.
"I don't bother most of the time," Grandma said, breaking me out of my trance, and when I looked over at her it was obvious that she had caught me staring, and knew what I was staring at as well.
"Hanging clothes out like this. I use the clothes dryer the rest of the year, as much as I hate to admit it," Grandma said, setting me straight as to what she was referring to. "I only use the clothesline when I have a helper. Smells much fresher hanging them this way though, doesn't it?"
"Yes," I agreed. Smells nice, and so did Grandma. She was never one for artificially deodorizing or heavily perfuming herself, and by standing so close to her I could inhale the fresh scent of her when her arms went up and down.
An Ivory Soap kind of freshness, and mixed with her natural aroma, it made for a scented cocktail that was almost as erotic as the sight itself. While Grandma's arms went up and down I couldn't get enough of the beauty of the modest tufts of hair that were so close to me that I could see the hairs flutter with the breeze.
What would they feel like? I had often wondered that very thing. The hair seemed so fine, I always imagined it to feel like silk to the touch, and how badly I wanted to just reach over and run my hands under her arms. My fingers - my tongue. I got light-headed just thinking of it.
While I felt my face flush at being caught staring at my grandmother like that, it didn't stop me from continuing to look each time her hands went up over her head. It also didn't stop Grandma from not only lifting her arms, but keeping them raised to allow me delightfully long views until she was finished securing the pins.
Her breasts were cradled in a bra, as they always were, and outside of very brief peeks into her cleavage from time to time when she would bend over, they had remained a mystery to me except for late one night when I saw her going from the bathroom to her bedroom.
Unsupported or hidden under a harness, her breasts seemed much larger as they swung in front of her in that flimsy nightie, and she was probably unaware of my prying eyes that savored those few seconds in my imagination long after that evening.
"There!" she announced, tossing the extra clothespins in the laundry basket which I strategically held at waist level to hide what I'm sure was a very obvious boner from Grandma's sight.
At that point I found my way into the bathroom, where I jerked myself off to the vision of her that lingered in my mind as I popped my load into the sink. I cleaned the sink thoroughly afterward, my shame telling me that I would not ever do this again while knowing full well that I would probably spend the next two months doing that very same thing over and over again.
..
Chapter Two: Night.
Late that night I heard the sounds of her footsteps in the hall outside of my bedroom door. The squeaking of the floor of the ancient farmhouse had grown louder as Grandma grew closer, alerting me of her approach and causing me to abort the activity I was engaged in.
The activity I was engrossed in at the time was masturbating, and I was getting pretty close to orgasm when I was interrupted. The ironic part of this was that the vision that was the inspiration of my erection was the very woman that now stood outside of my door.
I could see the shadow of her feet at the bottom of the door, and had pulled my cum catcher off of my cock seconds earlier, stuffing my sock under the bedding as I pulled the thin sheet up to my chest.
