He stared hard the minute he sat on the couch. Those legs, as always, drew his gaze.
She sat in a chair near the couch, reading the paper held before her face. It was a perfect way for him to watch those legs. She wore a tiny, silky pair of green running shorts on this warm afternoon, and nearly every inch of those sexy legs showed.
Her thighs were tanned deeply, heavily freckled, thin and fleshy, the insides wrinkled and slightly saggy as she sat, sneakered feet on the floor, legs slightly spread, gently moving them in and out, in and out. Those marvelous creamy inner thighs wobbled, a gentle wave of undulating flesh he longed to bury his face in.
Her calves were just as sexy, little balls of round muscle bulging above her low white socks as she rocked her legs, curling her toes in her sneakers. The calves were wrinkled as well, a sexy patchwork of rippling old flesh. Her shins were dark from the sun, she loved the sun, and shiny. In back, he noticed a thick vein running up from under her sock, the vein feeding blood to those amazing old calves.
And they were old. She was old. She was 70. She was his grandmother.
Barry stared hard. He always had. From puberty on he was struck by those legs of his grandmother, Mary, a blonde with silky hair, beautiful face, the usual granny look of puckered lips, crows feet around the eyes, a sexy hang of flesh at her chin and throat. Turkey wattle he'd heard it called, disparagingly. He loved hers.
Now he was a man, albeit a young man of 18, visiting his beloved granny while home after his freshman year in college. He'd gone on a run with her, lagging behind a bit so he could watch her legs flex in pounding muscularity, the skin over the steel beneath quivering as her feet hit the pavement, the muscle beneath tensing on impact. She was physically fit, active, and it showed, mostly in he legs he now stared at sitting in the living room as she read her paper. His cock throbbed in his shorts.
"Do me a favor, would you angel?" she suddenly asked, curling the paper to the side to smile at her grandson. "Can you get me a bottle of water, I'm thirsty."
"Sure thing, Grandma!" he said brightly, getting up and being careful not to walk too straight, with his cock hard and snaking down the leg of his running shorts.
He got the bottle, one for himself as well, and walked to the back of her chair. He looked down. Her tight t-shirt had a v-neck, and he marveled at the delicate wrinkled pucker of her upper chest, the cleavage brown and freckled and meaty, extending up from untanned breasts that were pure milky white, a tiny map of delicate blue veins just below the surface of that smooth, succulent alabaster skin.
He handed the bottle to her, and she thanked him with a smile. He sat back down, pretending to read himself. He started at those legs again, felt his cock harden anew. She crossed the right leg over the left, exposing a great, meaty shank of right thigh, the side furrowed with muscle separation of her quads and hamstring, the skin stretched thin. He gulped as she wiggled the crossed leg, rotating her sneakered food. The motion caused that big bubble of right calf to bulge and flex and ripple under her beautiful, tanned skin.
He was about to burst, and needed relief. He'd go to her bathroom, stroke himself there, and if he were very lucky, find a pair of her soiled panties or socks to help him along. But then she put the paper down, yawned and stretched, standing up to walk by the big sliding doors to her sunny deck, hands on her hips, rocking up and down on her feet, calves bulging.
He could hardly stand it. Her leg, thinnish but so very shapely, were outlined by the late-afternoon sun, the rays casting her magnificent legs in silhouette, the tiny, sexy little hairs of the sides of her thighs and calves gleaming. He wanted nothing more than to kneel behind her and lick every inch of her smooth, strong calves and thighs. And more.
Then she turned to face him, smiling uncertainly.
"Uh, Barry," she said, making him instantly nervous by the tone of her voice. "May I ask you something? Something personal?"
"Uh, sure, Grandma, sure," he said nervously, looking anywhere but at his beautiful sexy granny about 10 feet away, that sun again silhouetting her amazing old legs.
She sighed and said it: "Do you have...uh...a thing for legs?"
His world stopped spinning. He stared at her, knowing he was blushing. He lied and said, "Uh, no, no, no...what...what do you mean?"
"Not just legs," she continued slowly. "My. Legs. Do you, you know, have a thing or whatever for my legs?"
She blushed now as well, getting out in the open what she'd known for years. She was an observant woman, a beautiful, single woman, and she knew when men would check her out. She enjoyed it. But when she started noticing her own grandson's roving eyes, almost always focused on her legs whenever they were on display in shorts or skirts or even knee-length stretch pants she liked to wear that exposed her long, rugged calves, it troubled her.
And, she had to admit to herself, excited her as well.
She noted his nervous look, him fidgeting in his seat, unable to look at her, his red face.
"It's OK, Barry, it's OK," she said with a gentle smile, walking very, very slowly toward him, not at all certain what she'd do once she arrived. "I guess...well, I'm flattered that you like my skinny old legs!"
"I don't, Grandma, no, not really...it's just that...they're not old...you're not old..." He said, looking up, voice trailing off the nearer she got.
