At nineteen, she had led a hard, difficult life and then she met someone who changed everything.
He's tall, ruggedly attractive, well off and wants to have sex with her.
The only problem? He's sixty years old and as horny as Hell!
********
My name is Bobbie Jean Wilkerson. I'm your typical southern girl, not the southern belle version, but the slightly tomboyish, horseback riding, BBQ eating, cowboy loving type. 5' 5" tall about 120 lbs., ample tits, slim waist and a high, firm behind. Folks who knew my Momma when she was my age say I'm a spitting image of her; a headful of thick blond wavy hair, large wide-set blue eyes, long dark lashes and full red lips.
I grew up in a small dirt poor little town in East Texas in a trailer on the proverbial wrong side of the tracks. I was the second daughter and youngest of seven always hungry, often neglected children. My Momma after years of being psychologically and emotionally beat down had turned into a pathetic shell of the fun-loving, high school cheerleader and debate team captain she had once been. My Daddy was a sorry, drunk, son of a bitch, who when he did manage to get a job could never hold it for more that week. His one claim to fame (if you asked him) was "breeding" my Momma. She was knocked up right out of high school when they got married and he had the poor woman constantly pregnant the early years of their marriage until I came along.
It's crazy, but despite the drinking and tumultuous marriage, they were both somewhat religious in other aspects of their lives and raised us, the daughters to be chaste Christian girls. I guess their heavy handed attempts at parenting must have worked for me, but my older sister Rachael Marie rebelled early on, by the time she managed to complete high school, rumors, and gossip about her being the town slut was already at a fever pitch.
I wanted more out of life than a double-wide trailer, a bunch of kids and a sorry excuse for a man who would beat me out of his frustration. I was determined to have that better life. After I had graduated high school, I worked for a year as a waitress at the Lunch Bucket Café over on Lincoln Road. I've always been a friendly, open type of person, and the customers liked me and always left me good tips. Because I was still staying at home, I quietly gave Momma a little rent money each month and after a year, I had saved enough to pay my first year's tuition at the Josephine Rochester School of Beauty and Cosmetology.
Everything was going just as I had planned and I was enjoying my independence. I did well in my studies at beauty school, and though it was tough, I started putting in more hours at the Café and eventually found a roommate and moved out of the trailer.
On my nineteenth birthday, a couple of my friends took me out for dinner and a few drinks to celebrate. Right before dessert my phone began to ring, and the caller id showed it was my brother Jimmy.
"Bobbie Jean?"
"Hey, Jimmy how's it going?" I asked innocently.
"Bobbie, I've got some bad news," he said haltingly. Then taking a deep breath he blurted out, "Daddy got into a fight over at Magnus' Bar, and he got stabbed pretty bad."
"What hospital is he? I'll meet you there," I said as panic rose in my chest.
"No, no Bobbie Jean, listen . . . listen," he said sounding as if he were about to cry. "Bobbie, Daddy's dead. Momma's in the hospital; she had a nervous breakdown or something."
With those words, my head began to spin and feel as though wrapped in cotton. The sound and voices in the room became muffled and far away and then the blackness.
*****
My life changed that night, more than I could ever have imagined.
Because there was no insurance, the little money I had saved for school was added to what my brothers' could contribute toward paying for a modest funeral. I eventually had to drop out of school because I couldn't afford the tuition any longer, and started job hunting, hoping to find something that paid better than my waitressing job.
Discharged from the hospital after a two week stay, Momma returned home. It was a slow process, but Momma started getting better. I know it's not nice to say, but as much as I loved him, now that Daddy was dead she had her whole life ahead of her, a life she could shape into what she wanted it to be. Though she was getting better, she was still in no condition to be on her own, and I decided to stay with her for as long as she needed me to be there.
A friend told me about the opening for Nurse Assistant at Geneva Nursing and Rehabilitation Center. Although I had no real experience, I figured I had nothing to lose in going to the interview. To my surprise, with my friend's recommendation, I got the job.
My responsibilities were non-medical, mainly assisting the resident when needed, keeping their bed and rooms clean, helping them dress, shower, eat, etc. and if they seemed open to it, just reading and talking with them, sometimes watching television most of all providing a little person to person companionship. Surprisingly I discovered I enjoyed working at the nursing home and found myself looking forward to seeing some of the residents each day.
One resident that I particularly enjoyed seeing and talking to was Michael Sullivan. Mr. Sullivan was probably in his late sixties and had been widowed about six years. From what I heard from the staff, Mr. Sullivan even in his sixties was still a strong, virile man who loved the ladies, and was known to dog around occasionally.
*****
Our relationship started slowly. Each day I would go into his room, sit by his bedside and read to him. After a while, I noticed his expression started to change and soften when I came into the room. Sometimes when I helped him dress, or wheeled him outside for a little fresh air in the courtyard, his hands would wander, and he would playfully reach for and caress my breast and even once or twice "accidentally" slipped his hand between my legs and squeezed my thigh. At the time, I did not take him seriously and would laugh at his boldness and brush his hands away. After all, this was an old man.
Mr. Sullivan was at Geneva Rehabilitation recovering from a skiing accident, though fit and healthy otherwise, he needed quite a bit of physical therapy. He was still not able to get around on his own and so each day I would help him to the shower, or if he did not feel up to it, I would pull the privacy curtains around his bed and give him a sponge bath. I had been doing this for several weeks with no problems, aside from him describing in great detail what he wanted to do to me and stealing an occasional feel. He would lie there on his stomach while I washed his back with the warm, soapy cloth sometimes emitting a soft snore as my ministrations lulled him into a short catnap.
"Ok, Mr. Sullivan, I need you to roll over onto your back now."
He'd turn over and position himself comfortably on his back, his arms at his side, his muscular legs relaxed, his penis, long, thick and uncut lying flaccid on his upper thigh. With me blushing at the sight of his impressive male equipment, a barely concealed smile would play across Mr. Sullivan's face. In the beginning, I tried covering his privates, but he would remove the towel and toss it on the floor, silently daring me to do anything about it. After a while, I didn't bother anymore with the towel.
