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Canada Erotic Story
When Ben had been in high school, girls didn't look this good. That was the only conclusion he could come to, drinking his coffee from Starbucks at the local mall, and watching the teenage beauties prancing by in their abbreviated tops and short skirts. The bodies on those girls! And the way they displayed them! It was enough to make even Ben's middle-aged hormones come to a boil.
Back when Ben was the age of the lovely nymphs now driving him to distraction, he had been mostly clueless as to what to do about girls. He had gone out on lots of dates, but had never really developed what they now called "a relationship" with any of the girls he dated. There had been occasional makeout sessions in the living rooms of a few, but nothing too advanced or satisfying.
Things hadn't been much better in college: Ben had shown brilliant timing in arriving at one of the better Eastern liberal arts colleges in the last years of its all-male incarnation; the first class of freshman women didn't show up till his senior year there. So Ben had no fond memories of happy college sex, either.
And, now, here he was, married, the parent of two grown children, watching the girls go by, and wishing he could get at them--at least one of them. It wasn't that he was ugly, or fat: just too old (and married) to be interesting to the sort of sleek, pretty high school senior he'd love to slowly undress and pay the sort of erotic attentions to that he hadn't known how to do when he was 18.
Ben had read lots of stories about how men of his vintage got to bed with much younger women: pretending to be a fashion photographer, for example, or a scout for a modeling agency. He didn't believe that he could pull either of those off. Ben wasn't flashy, or a very good liar. He needed something more devious. More psychologically sound.
So Ben started to do an analysis of what made high school age girls tick: what got their attention, what grabbed their emotions, what was capable of motivating them to do something unusual--like having sex with a married, older man who wasn't a rock star. Teen age girls, he realized, were highly emotional; were full of rebellion; were attracted to "bad boys"; and loved flattery. None of these characteristics suggested any plan of attack to Ben.
Then, one day, he saw a glorious young woman kneeling by the side of the road, crying and fussing over a small, wounded bird. Heedless of her own safety, she was trying to touch the doomed creature, making small, comforting noises to it, and ignoring everyone around her. A light went on in Ben's overworked brain: young girls were suckers for the sick and the dying. All of their emotionality could be given free rein, and their still-forming maternal instincts were called out in force. But how to use this to his advantage?
Later that day, Ben was reading a newspaper article about a dying eight year old boy, who was being flown to Disneyland by the Make A Wish Foundation. The article was accompanied by a picture of a lovely teenage girl volunteer who had become a special friend of the boy, and who had her arm around him as he received the good news. Bingo! thought Ben. How about a Make A Wish Foundation for Dying Adults--a Make A Big Wish Foundation! And, for its first dying wishmaker, how about Ben?
It took Ben a while to work the idea out in detail. He had to file official papers with the state creating his new foundation; he had to print stationery and business cards; he had to invent a whole non-existent staff and bureaucracy; and, then, he had to figure out how to solicit just the right sort of teenage volunteers. They needed to be at least eighteen--to avoid statutory rape issues, of course--and they needed to be emotional enough to be susceptible to the sort of persuasion Ben had in mind.
Ben realized that he needed an accomplice to pull this scam off. He approached a former secretary who had left his company to become an exotic dancer--it paid better--and with whom he had enjoyed a short affair some years earlier. She was now married, with no children, and owed him a lot of favors. She could also keep her mouth closed about this to, say, his work colleagues and his wife. For a modest honorarium, she agreed to help Ben with his scheme.
With her new title as Volunteer Coordinator of the Make A Big Wish Foundation, his former secretary, Andrea, also got a special telephone line to receive calls from prospective volunteers. Ben carefully drafted an advertisement seeking such volunteers, and had it published in the bulletins of various service clubs at local high schools. Andrea was instructed to screen prospective volunteers, eliminate any boys who offered their services, as well as any girls whose looks weren't up to Ben's standards.
In a few weeks, Andrea had a short list of three genuinely adorable young women just chomping at the bit to help out a middle-aged man who was dying of a brain tumor. Ben was ready to try to execute his plan.
The first of the volunteers was named Jen. She was about 5'6", 120 pounds, bottle blonde hair and blue eyes. Pretty as a picture, Jen was almost cloyingly emotional, prone to speak baby talk to dogs, and with a room full of stuffed animals at home. Andrea had put together a pretty descriptive summary of Jen for Ben before she arranged their first meeting, at an office borrowed by Ben for the occasion.
All that Jen had been told was that she was going to meet a nice, dying man, who had a special wish that she, perhaps, could help him fulfill, before his brain tumor made him unable to walk or speak, which could happen almost any day. She seemed eager to be of service in such a noble cause.
Jen arrived at the office, where Andrea met her and seated her in the waiting room. After a few minutes, Andrea led her into a comfortable office, with a desk and a couch, on which Ben was seated, leaning against an overstuffed pillow, and looking as weak as he could manage. "Jen, this is Arthur Thompson. Art, this is Jen York. I'll leave you two alone to get to know each other." At that, smiling at the slightly nervous Jen, Andrea exited and closed the door behind her.
"Hi, Jen," the newly christened "Art" said softly. "Have a seat, please." Art gestured weakly at the empty space on the couch beside him, and Jen carefully lowered herself into the indicated spot. "It's so nice of you, a busy, lovely young woman, to take the time to visit with a dying old man like me." "Oh, Mr. Thompson," said Jen with real passion, "it's a privilege for me to be given a chance to help you. And you certainly don't look either old or dying to me!"
"Sweet of you to say so, my dear," said "Art" with a sad smile, "but I am. And your visit is the nicest thing that has happened to me in a long time." "I'm so glad to be here, Mr. Thompson," Jen responded. "Please," he interrupted, "call me Art. It just makes me feel older when you call me Mr. Thompson." "Okay, Art, I'd be happy to," smiled Jen, "and perhaps you can tell me about this special wish of yours that I can help you with. I love to help people."
"Well, Jen," "Art" continued, "I'm kind of scared to bring it up with you. You see, the wishes of a dying old man aren't quite as simple to satisfy as the wishes of a dying boy who just wants to meet his favorite ball player." "I can understand that, Art," Jen said with feeling, "but I'm willing to do anything in my power to help you out. It would give me real pleasure to help someone as nice as you in your time of need."
"I hope it will give you pleasure, Jen," said "Art" with a small smile, "but I'm also afraid it will scare you away or offend you." "Don't you worry about it at all, Art," said Jen, warming to her subject, "I'm not as easy to frighten off as you may think." To emphasize her point, Jen leaned forward and put her soft young hand on "Art's" knee, which sent shivers of warmth through his body, and especially to his groin.
"Well, Jen, in that case, let me tell you about my wish. When I was young--when I was your age, dear--I was kind of afraid of girls, and never got to know any very well. And all my life I've regretted that, and especially regretted never having the opportunity to make love to a beautiful young woman like you. And, now, before I die, I want more than anything to have a chance to do so. And that's my wish."
Ben had watched Jen's face carefully as he delivered his short speech, to see if she was offended or frightened. He was pleased to note that she blushed a little at the words "make love", but even more that her hand never left his knee. In fact, her grip seemed to tighten on it a bit. Ben had been looking down for a minute after making his declaration; now he looked up directly into Jen's eyes, which were slightly tearful, and which stared back into his own with compassion and affection.
"Oh, Art," Jen said in a voice brimming over with emotion,"I would be honored to help you realize your wish. Nothing would make me happier than to give myself to you completely, just to see your smile after we have made love together. When would you like to have your wish come true?" "How about right now, darling Jen?" asked "Art" with genuine passion, "I don't know how many more weeks I have before my tumor starts to impair my ability to function." "Oh, gosh, I understand," responded Jen, "please kiss me, Art."
"Art" was happy to comply, and he leaned forward gently to place his arms around Jen's slender shoulders and draw her near. He looked into her eyes very deeply and seriously, then kissed her mouth softly, then a little harder, then slid his tongue between her lips. Jen got into the mood quickly, running her hands up Ben's legs to his back, then around to his chest, and leaning back against the end cushions of the couch. Ben's hands started to wander, as well, down Jen's beautiful, slim legs, and up to her firm, small breasts. He squeezed them gently, then harder, and felt the nipples pressing through the fabric of her blouse and bra.
"Let me help you, Art," breathed Jen, evidently getting plenty excited herself, who unbuttoned her blouse, unclipped her bra, and returned to their embrace eagerly. Ben wasted no time in dipping his greying head to her breasts, taking each one into his mouth, swirling his tongue around her nipples, then flicking the nipples repeatedly, and sucking them deeply into his mouth. Jen began to moan softly, letting her head hang back against the couch, and Ben took the opportunity to move down Jen's torso, his mouth licking and kissing her, until he reached the waistband of her skirt.
"Don't strain yourself, Art," said Jen, lifting her ass off the couch to make it easy for Ben to slide her skirt and panties to the floor. Ben slid further to her well shaved pussy, and proceeded to lick her pussy lips and clit enthusiastically. Jen's moans grew louder and higher pitched, until she shuddered in a series of orgasms. "Oh, Art," she begged, "please go inside me now. I need you inside me." Happy to oblige, Ben stood up, removed his clothes rapidly (but trying not to look too healthy), and presented his large, mostly erect cock to her luscious mouth. Taking the hint, Jen sucked it between her lips, and swirled her tongue around the head, until Ben was as rigidly erect as he had been in many years.
"Now, Art, go inside me now," said Jen, spreading her legs, and Ben wasted no time in sliding his cock gradually into her tight, wet pussy. After he had moved in and out a few times, Jen pulled herself to a sitting position, and said, "Art, I don't want you working too hard. Just lean back." "Oh, that's awfully sweet of you, Jen," Ben replied, happy to comply. He pulled his body onto the couch, leaning back against the arm, and watched with wonder as Jen's glorious young body knelt over him, and gradually descended on his cock, taking it all inside her. Jen then leaned forward, and began to pump her hips up and down, crushing her clit against his pubic bone.
Jen's pace accelerated, and she began to come a second time, while Ben enjoyed the magnificent sensations, and felt his own body tighten in anticipation of his orgasm. As Jen bounced on him in abandon, he gasped, and spurted hard inside her, collapsing on the couch only partly in dramatic fashion. Jen stretched herself forward to cover his body with her own, and whispered, "Did that fulfill your wish, Art?" in Ben's ear. "Oh, it did, it did, Jen. You are an angel. Now I can die happy. Thank you, dear."
Reaching down to stroke his already softened cock, Jen felt it twitch, and said, "You know, Art, you don't feel quite dead yet. Maybe we can stretch your wish out a little more." "I'd love to, Jen," smiled Ben, "and if it kills me, I can't think of a nicer way to go." Looking at the top of Jen's blonde head as she worked on sucking his cock back to life, Ben contemplated his visits planned with the other two hopeful volunteers, and decided that, in his case, dying was going to be a lot more fun than living had ever been.
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