She'll just have to wait

“I'm sorry to have to disappoint you, Honey.” I laugh at the look of frustration on the young woman's face. “Next week I'll show you exactly what I'd do. In the meantime you have to read all three books and let me know which scenario you want to play out.”

“We don't really have to wait, Mr. P, do we?” Her doe eyes bat seductively and she licks her lips in a blatant attempt to make me start thinking with my cock. A younger me, forty years ago would have been a pushover for this kind of treatment, but one of the few advantages that come with age is that I am no longer ruled by my hormones. Instead of letting this get out of hand I take her hand in mine giving it a firm squeeze and offer a distraction instead.

“Do you want some tiramisu? I took it out of the fridge earlier.” I smile to take the sting out of my rejection, and add a gentle word of wisdom. “Patience is a virtue, Angel. Trust me, it will be better if we let things simmer a little.” I know for a fact that waiting will definitely add to the excitement, but it will also give me a chance to meet with my doctor and get some pills.

Alison gives a deep sigh and then with a shrug of her nearly bare shoulders she smiles back with an easy confidence that seems to be new. “Well Mr. Patterson, you know where to find me if you change your mind.” Gracefully climbing to her feet, she smooths some imaginary wrinkles from her tight dress making her firm breasts swell dangerously against the bodice. “I think I'll pass on dessert tonight,” she glides toward the doorway to the dining room pausing to give me one more stunning look at her in the tight dress. “I have to watch my figure you know. Besides I have a reading assignment that I'd better get started on.”

“Well get out of here then,” I chuckle, as I send her away. “If you change your mind about the tiramisu I'll save a slice for you.” With Alison gone, the kitchen feels even more empty than usual, but I set to work cleaning up the dishes from dinner and find myself wondering which of the three Harlequins the sheltered young woman is reading as she lies on her bed.

The next few days pass relatively normally, the only change in the routine is that Dick does not come over for his usual booty call on either Monday or Tuesday. I try to explain my satisfaction at this change in routine to the fact that I won't have to listen to her bed banging, but I'm pretty sure that there is more to it than the peace and quiet. On both days Alison disappears to her rooms after dinner instead of watching TV with me and I miss her quiet company. Monday she comes downstairs for a cup of decaf and a flaky apple pastry at halftime, but on Tuesday evening she is unusually quiet during dinner and her snack sits uneaten by her perch on the couch.

On Wednesday I finally get to the doctors office and I return home with a little bag from the pharmacy and a grin on my face. That smile fades quickly when I hear a weird scraping sound from upstairs. On Wednesdays Alison has her 4-8 class, but I'm pretty sure there is someone or something upstairs. I live in a pretty quiet neighborhood not far from the college but we do have the occasional break-ins. With 911 dialed on my phone and my thumb hovering over the send button, I quietly make my way up the steps ready to confront whoever it is muttering in Alison's room. Her door is open just enough for me to peek in and the source of the rhythmic scraping sound I could not place becomes clear.

Not only is my tenant playing hooky, she is laying half naked on her bed and playing with herself. The steady rise and fall of her hips is enough to keep her bed rocking, it is not the loud thumping I am familiar with but loud enough to be heard from downstairs. What I thought might be a muffled conversation between two burglars is instead the inarticulate grunts and whimpers that escape in gasps from her gaping mouth.

The source of Alison's arousal is not hard to divine. On the floor, discarded some time ago is one of the Harlequins I presented to her. I look carefully but cannot determine which of the three books has her so excited. Thankfully, Alison is well into her masturbatory play with her head is tilted back and eyes shut so she does not see me gawking at her like a pubescent teen.

With a grin, as I remember how close I had come to calling the police, I step silently back down the stairs. I doubt very much Alison would have forgiven me if I let a squad of police up to her room to discover her in that compromising position. Once safely downstairs I bang some pots and pans loudly enough to alert my tenant that she is no longer alone in the house. I could have let her finish, but I figure the more frustrated she gets this week, the hotter the sex will be on Saturday.

When Alison appears in the kitchen, red-faced and disheveled I do a pretty good job of acting surprised as I look up from the half-diced onions on the cutting board.

“I thought you had class?” I make the statement into a question.

“Yeah, but uh, it is just a review day,” Alison stammers out, clearly not used to lying, “so I thought I'd stay home and help cook dinner.” I hide my smile as I recall the cooking that I saw my hot young tenant working on. Instead of teasing her though, I pass the onions to her and head for the pantry. Together we put together a curried lentil dish. It is surprisingly nice having the company in the kitchen, even when she pulls out her phone puts on a playlist of the latest county divas. Before long, she starts two-stepping around the kitchen table singing along with the music.

Oh baby I
I hope you hear a song
That makes you sing along and gets you thinking 'bout her
Then the last several miles turns into a blur, yeah

“Common, Mr. P, it's Gabby Barret.” Alison tries to take take my hands, but I am able to deter her with one of my teacher looks. I do however watch her toned body sashay around the kitchen with a benevolent smile and ill intentions in my heart. Thirty minutes later Alison is setting the table while I blend in the coconut cream and sherry before bringing the lentils and rice to the table. It is not until we are almost done eating that she answers the question that has been bugging me since I saw her on her squirming on her bed.

“I made my choice, Mr. Patterson.” She is once again the shy young woman I am used to, “You know, from the books you gave me?”

“Oh?” I do my best to feign indifference, “Which one?”