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Gramma Torrie Chapter One

by David Witheld 2 months ago in erotic
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A Tale of Winter/Spring Love - Torrie's Side

Torrie: A Tale of Spring/Winter love

Chapter One

I had never felt more lonely, or more alone, sitting there, my back rigid, watching the Chicken Dance wind down and knowing, without a doubt, that the Hokey Pokey would be next. It always is at weddings.

I had known this would be a mistake, but when your grandson asks you to come to his wedding, what can you do? He was so cute standing there, all grown up.

“Please Gramma Torrie,” he had said, holding my hand, “I know that my sister is still mad, but please come.”

And I had said yes, against my better judgment. And now here I was, proving once again that my judgment had been right.

I’m an Alzheimer’s Widow you see. And as far as most of my family is concerned, Wicked Gramma Torrie or Mean Aunt Torrie, depending on your relationship to me, had thrown Favorite Uncle (or Grampa) Chester into a nasty old home.

They couldn’t understand, couldn’t know how bad it had been at the end. He didn’t recognize me anymore, and he got mean. I had worn long sleeves and heavy makeup too often to cover the bruises he left. And that last time, when my arm was broken, well, it was too much and I had him committed.

So here I was, sitting alone, watching the dancing and trying to figure out how quickly I could make my excuses to Benjamin, the only one in the building who had seemed genuinely happy to see me, and escape.

My eyes were fixed on the lead singer of the band as “he” moved into my field of view. He just stood there, smiling a little half-smile, with his hand extended.

I looked up at him, wondering what this was about. But he didn’t move, just stood there, his hand extended, clearly offering it to me.

I waited, and he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He waited and it looked like he could wait forever.

So I relented, sat my drink that I had been holding like a shield down, and took his hand.

He helped me to my feet and then led me to the dance floor. The band was doing a passable rendition of Elvis Presley’s "Blue Hawaii," the goofiness of the Hokey Pokey and the YMCA done, and he put his hand on my waist, very formally, took my right hand in his left, held still for a beat and then stepped off into a dance.

And he was a good dancer. He didn’t try to get into any fancy ballroom waltz but his simple box step was in rhythm and his hands didn’t roam. It felt good.

When the music ended I started to turn away but he held my hand, not releasing me. When the lead singer started with a very good imitation of Bill Medley doing "Unchained Melody" we stepped into another dance. And still, he had not said a single word to me.

Once more the music ended and this time he led me back to my table, my lonely table. But he didn’t offer to help me get seated. Instead, he reached down, picked up my purse, and finally, he spoke.

“Come on,” he said, his voice a very pleasant baritone sounding almost too old for his young face, “I’m helping you escape. Let’s find Ben (and hearing Benjamin’s name shortened kind of struck me as odd), make our excuses, and get out of here.”

Finally, the name came to me. He was one of Benjamin’s groomsmen and I had known him since he was just a little boy.

“Roger, thank you,” I said, “but I don’t want to take you away from the party.”

His laugh was full and hearty and made me smile for the first time that night.

“Oh Mrs. Morgan,” he said, “if I wanted to stay, which I don’t, but if I wanted to stay I wouldn’t because I am, for one night only, your Sir Galahad and you dear lady,” and here he took my hand and lifted it to his lips and kissed it gently before releasing it, “are in need of a rescue. Now come on,” he finished, taking my hand and gently pulling me toward the knot of people gathered around the young bride and groom.

The conversation died as we moved toward the couple, making me even more aware of how isolated I was in this company.

“Ben,” Roger said in his strong voice, “congratulations again,” and he grabbed my grandson up into a big bearhug.

“And Bonnie,” he released Benjamin and turned to the bride, absolutely radiant in white, “you chose the right one,” and he kissed her, a little more deeply than I thought was actually appropriate, but Benjamin didn’t seem to mind and he was taking my hand then.

“Thank you, Gramma Torrie,” he said, looking into my eyes. “I know it was kind of rough and I’m sorry but I am really,” and he actually seemed to tear up a little, “really glad you came.” He hugged me and gave me a soft kiss.

“Congratulations dear,” I said, and turned to the bride.

“You, my dear,” I said, “be very good to my favorite grandson,” and I gave her a soft kiss on the cheek.

“ENOUGH!” Roger said loudly, “come on good lookin’,” he said, taking my hand and starting toward the door, “let’s get out of here.”

And we did. He was young and strong and a force of nature as he led me through the crowd to the coatroom where I found my silly old mink that I had worn as part of my “uniform” of the night.

In the parking lot of the reception hall, he asked if I had a car there. I told him “no” and he smiled and said “good” and led me to his car. The little blue PT cruiser convertible was so cute it made me giggle a little, and he opened the door and held my hand as I worked into the bucket seat.

When he was seated he turned and asked “would you like a drink or something or do you just want to go home and try to forget this day?”

I had to think for a minute before answering.

“I think I would like a drink dear, before going home,” I said.

He grinned, flashing a boyish grin that made me think he might have practiced that one in the mirror.

“You don’t look like a beer girl,” he said, “a martini maybe?”

That made me giggle. And that made me feel silly.

“Actually, Roger, I think a beer would be absolutely heavenly,” I said.

There was that grin again.

“Done,” he said and put his car into gear and we headed out of the parking lot.

He turned on the radio and I was delighted to hear Del Shannon’s version of "Runaway."

I looked at him with a raised eyebrow (I am genetically enabled to do the one eyebrow thing) and he chuckled back at me.

“My gramma always said that American music had been downhill since Dion and the Belmonts broke up,” he said, “and I tend to agree with her.”

I settled back to listen to the radio and reflect on the day.

I was surprised when he pulled into the parking lot of a small local bar near my house. I had actually been in the place a few times over the years.

I smiled and said “I’m surprised, dear. I had you figured for a loud band kind of a guy.”

That grin again.

“For me, maybe, but this trip is about you Mrs. Morgan,” he said.

“Oh sweety,” I said, giggling a little, “I’m letting you buy me a beer, please call me Torrie.”

He opened his door and literally ran around the car to open mine and I certainly did appreciate that little courtesy.

“Okay Torrie,” he said with a smile this time rather than that grin he flashed so often.

I took his arm, feeling overdressed in my long dress and mink although why I would I don’t know since he was in his rented tux. It felt nice, holding onto a strong man like that and entering the dark, quiet bar.

He took my coat, held my hand as I slid across the booth, and then went to the bar. He came back with two mugs and a pitcher of beer.

I couldn’t help but giggle a little and said “are you trying to get me drunk, dear?”

He looked at me for a long second and said, very seriously, “no Torrie. I am trying to help you relax after what was obviously a bad day.”

I smiled and touched his hand before taking a long pull at the beer.

“You’re sweet dear,” I said, “and perceptive.”

There was that laugh again.

“Oh Torrie,” he said, “thank you, but it was pretty obvious. And I’m sorry about Chester. I always liked him. But we’ve had some Alzheimer's in our family and I understand how it must have been for you.”

I was surprised at how quickly the tears started.

“Do you dear?” I asked, “do you really?”

I took a deep breath and got myself under control. And then I opened my purse and started rummaging through looking for some change.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Looking for change to play the jukebox,” I said.

He laughed. And he reached into his wallet and handed me a ten-dollar bill. Then he stood and held that hand out again.

“No more change Torrie. It has obviously been a while since you played a jukebox,” he said. “Come on.”

I felt silly but I took his hand and then went with him to the jukebox, all neon and LEDs, with a tiny TV screen rather than buttons. In that instant, standing there trying to puzzle out how to select a song, I felt every one of my 74 years. It was fun standing there, though, shoulder to shoulder like that. But I quickly realized that I did not recognize a single song title or artist name on the list.

“You select,” I said, turning and looking up at him, feeling silly and kind of young for the first time in years.

We talked, and it was fun. He knew a lot of things about a lot of things and he was witty. I laughed often, and he did too. It was comfortable and for a few seconds every now and then I could forget that there was a half-century between us.

When the pitcher of beer was done he stood and offered that hand again. I let him help me stand and then lead me out to his little car.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew where I lived. After all, he had been a friend of Benjamin’s since they were kids, and although I didn’t exactly remember, I was sure he had been here before.

At the house, he again did the run-around-the-car thing and then walked me to my door. I opened my purse to get my key and I was surprised when he reached in and grabbed my cell phone. I watched, curiously, as he punched in a number and then reached into his pocket when his own phone rang.

He grinned again and said “now I have your number. I’ll call you.”

I didn’t know what to say at that.

He watched as I found the keys and then opened my door. I turned to say good night, not sure what to expect. Not sure what I wanted to be honest.

But he solved the problem for me. He leaned over, kissed my cheek very chastely, and said “good night Torrie. I will call you.”

And then he turned and left. I watched him start the car and back out before I went inside.

When I got inside I closed the door and leaned against it. I was aware of how much I looked like I was doing what a director had told me to do on some movie set. But I didn’t care. It felt right. A terrible day had turned into a good day and I was emotionally drained.

I was also aware of that pressure in my belly.

I took the mink off and put it in the closet.

I went into the bedroom and started undressing. The long semi-formal dress went onto its hanger and then into the plastic bag. My earrings and necklace and bracelet and watch went into their proper places. I took off my shoes and carefully put them onto the shoe rack. Bra, pantyhose, and panties, in that order, into the laundry hamper.

Naked, I went to my full-length mirror and looked, taking inventory as I did almost every night.

My hair, a nice grey with just a hint of black remaining, was my best feature I thought and I patted it as I often did. My eyes were clear and blue and I thought, a good feature too. My nose was oversized, my ears a little big, my lips sort of thin. But when I looked at my face all I saw were wrinkles. At 74 I shouldn’t be surprised, but I still hated them.

Then I started down my body. My shoulders were okay, but I am one of those women who lost every fat cell she ever had when menopause struck. My arms were almost stick-thin, and the skin hung loose where I had lost fat and muscle from the elbow up. My finger joints were a bit oversized, but my arthritis was under control.

My boobs, of course, had fallen. I had never been large-breasted, but they hung now, empty flaps, tipped by smallish pink nipples. The wrinkles at the tops always bothered me, and I lifted them briefly and let them flop.

My belly shared the problem of my arms. With the fat cells gone the skin was soft and wrinkled. My hip bones stood out starkly. My sex, okay, my pussy, sort of dangled. Where I had once had very full labia the missing fat cells left me, well, floppy.

My poor skinny legs. I had been a runner and had good legs until my 60s. Now they were stick-skinny with my knees showing up as knobby, the biggest part of my legs. My feet, always kind of big, were actually not bad with long toes. But the horny toenails and the calluses (what my mother always called bunions) were just plain ugly.

And there I was. I smiled wryly and crawled into bed, naked as I always did.

The pressure was still there and I knew I would need to masturbate to get to sleep. Thinking of the word made me giggle. I hadn't done anything like that since puberty but since I was living alone I had started doing it. "Rubbing one out." "Stroking the kitty." You know, all those euphamisms women use. But to think of myself as "masturbating" always made me giggle.

I rolled over and reached into the drawer of my nightstand, finding the candle I kept there. Over the months it had accepted the shape of my body. When I reached down to touch I wasn’t a bit surprised to find myself beyond wet, to find myself slick with my need. I brought my fingertip to my lips, looking around guiltily as I always did, and tasted my nectar, salty and a bit oily. My womanscent, laden with pheromones as it was, made the pressure in my belly even worse.

As always, my breath caught from the pressure as I slipped the candle inside of me. I shuddered, as I always did, and then started the slow rhythm that would bring me the release I needed. But the release didn’t come. The pressure built, that tingle that started at the fork of my legs and spread, making my nipples hard and my skin tighten with goosebumps, that made my lips tingle and my tongue feel swollen, that made my toes curl. That was there. And it was building. But the burst of pure ecstasy, The sudden rush of absolute pleasure wouldn’t come.

I sped up my rhythm. The candle moving in and out quickly now. And still, that release wouldn’t come. And I was tiring, starting to pant. My arm was tiring. I was straining, pushing, beginning to get desperate for the release I needed.

My eyes were closed. I could see that grin. And that smile. And suddenly I cried his name.

“ROGER!!!”

And I came. It was hard and it was good and I collapsed back onto my pillow, spent. I barely got my candle back into its drawer before sleep took me.

I slept deeply and felt satisfied and content.

erotic

About the author

David Witheld

College degrees in teaching, history, and economics.

Veteran, Vietnam ERA but I never, EVER, put myself in the same league as those guys who went over there and did it. I was an Air Force analyst.

Retired now, and write for fun and profit.

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