Part One

I was 49 years old when Heather Garson came into my life. She was the six-year-old daughter of a single mother who moved into a house across the street from me.

My name is Edwin McFadden. Most people call me Ed or Eddie. I was a long-divorced man who worked out of my home as a bookkeeper and financial advisor for several clients. This allowed me the freedom to work whenever I liked, go to bed and get up when I chose, and basically create my own daily schedule. In other words, I was very flexible when it came to my personal time.

I saw the moving van arrive along with Heather and her mother (June) that Saturday in February. To be neighborly, I made a point of dropping by their house once they seemed reasonably settled there. I was armed with a few leftover lollipops from Halloween that had been sitting in a basket in my living room for nearly four months. June and Heather were both extremely friendly, the latter especially so because of the sweet treats.

I learned that June had been divorced for four years. She and her daughter used to live in a city 60 miles north of mine. She was starting a fresh job in this new city that required her to work from noon until 8 p.m. Monday through Friday. This presented a problem regarding child care. Heather was dismissed from school at 3:45 p.m. It typically took her 15 minutes to walk from school to her house. That meant nobody was available to be home for her until June’s work shift ended. June was pondering her options. I immediately offered a new one for her consideration.

“June, Heather is more than welcome to stay with me for those four hours each day,” I suggested. “I can rearrange my weekday schedule to make sure I’m home at that time for her. I’m a halfway decent cook, so I’ll even prepare evening meals for her. All you’ll have to do is pay me for the cost of the food. The actual babysitting will be free of charge. You can’t beat that deal anywhere else—and I’d appreciate having Heather’s company. What do you say?”

What could she say? June cheerfully accepted my offer. Heather seemed pleased and excited about it, too. June cautioned her that she wouldn’t be getting treats from me every day and she was expected to be on her best behavior at all times “when Mr. McFadden is taking care of you.”

I quickly interjected. “One other thing: I insist that Heather refer to me as Ed or Eddie. Mr. McFadden sounds far too formal for my liking.”

This was quickly agreed upon by everyone present. Our arrangement—which would last for years—began the following Monday.

Part Two

I spent the intervening weekend wondering how I would amuse a six-year-old girl for the better part of four hours five days per week. Of course, there was always the option of the television, but I wanted to befriend this cute little kid. Heather was the closest thing to a daughter that I had—and would likely ever have. I traveled to the public library on Monday morning and, with the assistance of the helpful staff, I borrowed half a dozen age-appropriate storybooks that I could read to her—or we could read together.

When Heather arrived, I showed her the stack of borrowed books. She was quite keen on having me read to her. I discovered she struggled with reading, so I turned it into a lesson where I helped her sound out troublesome words. I noticed a clear improvement after about 30 minutes—and I told her so. She was so thrilled by her quick progress that she leapt onto my lap and embraced me. I told her that was the best possible thanks I could receive.

Heather also enjoyed my macaroni and cheese dinner that I whipped up fairly quickly. “Oh, I really like to eat this!” was her honest reaction. “I’m glad dinner is something I like a lot!” I used that opening to find out what her favorite foods were—and, more importantly, what Heather did not like to eat. After we finished eating, we watched some television together. Heather started her viewing in an individual chair. By the time June arrived, Heather was sharing the couch with me and clinging to me very affectionately. I did not mind that a bit! She insisted on reading to her mother from one of the library books to show her how she was now better able to sound out difficult words. June was impressed and thankful. It had been a truly great first day with Heather.

That was basically how things operated at my home every weekday following school days for the next 12 years. Like clockwork, June reimbursed me every Friday night for the food Heather consumed during the week. Whatever the total was, June always paid me at least 25 percent more. She insisted I make some profit, so I did not fight it. During summer breaks, Heather was often at my place for more than eight hours at a time if I could manage it with my bookkeeping clients. Heather was extremely good at occupying herself with various things when I was busy doing work. I discovered she had a fondness for solving jigsaw puzzles, so I made sure I always had a few on hand. I also taught Heather how to play solitaire, along with two-player card games such as gin rummy and cribbage. At the very least, I figured they’d improve her math skills. I tried to teach her the basics of chess, but that proved to be a futile endeavor. Checkers was more to her liking. Based solely on my personal interactions with her, I figured Heather ranked somewhere between a B and C student.

Heather also grew to be a very cute girl. One Valentine’s Day when she was 11, Heather was amazed that three of her male classmates had bought her cards and candy. “Only three boys did that?” I teased her. “The rest must be blind, stupid, or both!”

“Aw, Eddie, you’re only saying that just to be polite!” she suggested.

“No, I’m not,” I replied. “I’m being perfectly honest with you. In case you didn’t know it, you are quite a fetching young gal, Miss Heather Garson. If I had been a boy in your class, I would have emptied my piggy bank to buy you a Valentine gift.”

Heather said nothing for a moment or two, but she looked at me quite amorously. Eventually she said, “Isn’t it a shame, Eddie, that you were born more than 40 years before I was?”

“I’ve often thought that myself, Heather.” Then I gave her a brief hug. Our mutual displays of affection had never strayed beyond that point.

Heather then asked me a personal question that she hadn’t dared ask me before. “Why aren’t you married, Eddie, and why don’t you at least have a steady girlfriend in your life?”

That was a bit of a sore topic with me, but I decided Heather needed and deserved an accurate answer. “I was married once,” I told her. “I guess you didn’t know that. It was long before you were born. It was basically a disaster. My marriage lasted all of seven months. Her name was Sandra. We were both 24 years old. I met her at a nightclub. I almost never go to bars and clubs, but I went to one with a friend one night and that’s where I met Sandra. We were instantly attracted to one another. We had a whirlwind courtship and we were married three months later. Within a month, though, I realized Sandra wasn’t going to be the traditional wife and mother type that I had hoped and assumed she’d be. Sandra liked the party and nightclub scene. I didn’t. After a while I realized that she preferred the company of her likeminded female friends over me. That concerned me greatly. When I said we needed to discuss where our marriage was headed, Sandra expressed the same doubts as I had. We were amicably divorced as quickly as possible and we went our separate ways. Ever since then, I’ve been afraid of getting emotionally attached to any female—yourself excluded, Heather—and so I haven’t even pursued any romantic interests, despite having a few chances to do so. I suppose I’m afraid of another disastrous situation arising. Thus, I’m a 54-year-old, divorced male who will likely remain that way until I die.”

“I think that’s a terrible shame!” Heather sweetly commented. “You’re such a kind man, Eddie!”

“Thanks for your heartfelt concern, Heather,” I replied. “Honestly, there are greater tragedies in the world than yours truly being a bachelor for all but seven months of my life.”

Part Three

By the time Heather was 18 years old, she was definitely a looker. She was so well built and extremely pretty that I recalled her comment from seven years earlier. I, too, was now annoyed that I was more than four decades older than she was! One night we were dining on a meatloaf dinner when Heather said she was finding her present health studies unit on human sexuality to be quite enlightening.

“I truly hope it’s all new to you, Heather!” I remarked.

It took her longer than I expected for her to get my little joke. However, I added, “I may regret asking this, Heather, but what was new and wonderful for you in that field of study recently?”

Without the slightest hesitation, Heather noted, “Today the class learned that males typically attain their sexual peak in their late teenage years, while females hit it anywhere from their late twenties until their early forties. Isn’t that a crazy statistic? That makes no sense to me whatsoever. You’d think nature would have evened that out!”

“I was happy about it when I was a teenager,” I informed my dining partner. “A good, stiff breeze often resulted in a good, stiff something else.” I chuckled then I added, “But today, when I’m a 61-year-old man...”

Heather expected me to complete that sentence. When I wasn’t in a hurry to do so, she urged me on.

“Frankly, I’d describe myself as nearly impotent now,” I confessed. “I can seldom get it up. I can be reading the sexiest novel in the world or looking at the hottest pornography...and nothing happens below the belt. I understand this is common as males get into their late fifties and early sixties. I also think that being celibate for many years didn’t help me, either. The old adage ‘use it or lose it’ seems to apply here. Gee, I can’t believe I’m discussing this sexual problem of mine with an 18-year-old girl.”

“Eddie, I’m the perfect person for you to talk to about it!” Heather claimed. “Maybe I can even help you out.”

There was a noticeable silence in the room for perhaps five seconds. I wrongly assumed she would inform me about impotency cures she’d learned in class and tell me to get certain pills or herbs from Asia. I discovered that was not what was running through Heather’s mind when I asked her, “Oh, what do you think you can do to help me with my problem, my dear?”

“I could try to make your penis hard!” she stated without any emotion at all. “In fact, I’d like to try, Eddie. You’ve been such an important and influential part of my life since I was six, I think I owe you this special favor at the very least. Once we finish our dinner, let’s give it a whirl!”

I was shocked and amazed, but I was also absolutely in favor of her splendid idea! Heather had developed sex appeal early in life, which I had quietly admired, so I was willing to partake in any sexual favors she might offer me. We both wolfed down our main course of meat loaf and fried potatoes plus large pieces of an apple pie I had bought at the grocery store that morning. I quickly set our dirty dishes in the kitchen sink to be washed later—hopefully much later.

We adjourned to the living room, our favorite room in my house where we had so often read books, played cards, and watched TV over the past dozen years. I had no idea the extent of what Heather’s cure for my impotency issue might entail, so I gladly let her take charge. Heather said I should sit in one of the two comfy leather recliners and slide my trousers and my briefs to my ankles so she could get to work. I thought to myself I’d be getting a hand job, perhaps even fellatio from my youthful companion. Either way, I figured it would be wonderful. It started that way, at least.

My dick was typically flaccid, but I could feel the beginning of some stirrings just because of the person who now held my shaft in her grip. I slowly started to get an erection, which was a pleasant surprise to me. “Attaboy, get up there!” Heather encouraged my docile manhood, which made me laugh.

“Hey, sometimes a penis needs a pep talk,” Heather said. She seemed to be speaking from experience. I’d have to inquire about that later. Right now, though, the focus was all about resurrecting my ancient dick from its longtime comatose state.

My dick was indeed on the rise, though it was taking longer than I wanted and hoped, even as Heather began using both her hands on my phallus. She was simultaneously stimulating my testicles while yanking on my shaft. I told her, “Honey, sweetheart, if I were 21, 31, 41, or 51, I would have unleashed an enormous geyser of cum by now. At 61, I’ll be happy with even a little squirt of semen today.”

Heather surprised me by saying, “Maybe it would be helpful if I took off my top and bra so you could fondle my breasts while I work on your dick. Sound reasonable to you?”

“It definitely couldn’t hurt, that’s for certain!” I cheerfully replied.

Heather was wearing a red golf shirt. That came off her torso in a matter of seconds. She was about to unclasp her brassiere when I stopped her to ask, “May I have the honor?”

“Oh, sure, Eddie! If that makes you and your dick happy!” she agreed.

“Yes, it would undoubtedly make me very happy. I’m a little bit out of practice at doing this, but I think I still remember how it is done, ” I told her. I was right. Off it came. I flung Heather’s beige undergarment across the room out of sheer joy. Her breasts were magnificent things that needed my attention. “You are better built than my ex-wife was, Heather!” I told her honestly. “I’m going to enjoy this activity!”

I immediately cupped both of them. Her tits weren’t as firm as I expected them to be—they were rather jiggly instead—but I wasn’t going to complain about it at all. I put my thumbs to work, having them arouse her sizeable nipples. I sincerely wished my penis was half as hard as those key parts of Heather’s lovely anatomy. I was so focused on my task at hand—pun intended—that I was startled when Heather said, “It looks as if you are ready to perform. Hey, Eddie, you’re not 61 anymore. You’re 21 again.”

Somehow Heather had resurrected my dick from the ravages of time and inactivity. It was standing quite firmly, happily pointing skyward. It was not as magnificent as it had been in my prime, but I had no intention of telling that to Heather. Instead, I congratulated her excellent work with a romantic kiss. It was the first one we had ever shared.

“Wow, that’s tremendous what you did for me, Heather—just spectacular. I’ll be quite happy if you can make me come with a timely hand job.”

“No way, Eddie,” she said. “You’ll be getting the full treatment from me. I want you to fuck my pussy with that lovely hard dick you possess.” At this point, she stood up and dropped the white shorts she was wearing, closely followed by her pink panties. Heather’s pussy was hairy but utterly desirable to me. I felt like I had won a lottery jackpot.

Heather moved to another chair, remained standing, but she bent at the waist into something close to a 90-degree angle. I got the picture: Heather wanted to be screwed from behind. I liked the idea, too. That way I could fuck her while standing and still play with her rack for added fun.

The last time I had fucked an 18-year-old girl, I was 19. That was more than four decades ago. I didn’t recall if Doris Schmidt, my paramour that day, had a pussy that was as warm, tight and inviting as Heather’s was this day, but I doubted it. I got into a good rhythm of ramming Heather’s vagina until I was balls-deep inside her. Then I suddenly stopped. I knew Heather was wholly responsible for me even attaining an erection—never mind a tremendous one. I had to comment, “I so want to please you with my dick, Heather. Is what I’m doing okay with you?”

“Okay?” she asked me with a degree of incredulity. “It’s more than okay! It’s fabulous. Yours is the best dick I’ve ever had inside my pussy! Keep doing exactly what you’re doing, Eddie!”

Based on that offhand comment said in the throes of passion, I knew for certain that I’d have to inquire about Heather’s sexual history and personal “body count” someday in the future. In the meantime, I followed Heather’s request. I even increased my penetration rate. About two minutes later, I felt something I hadn’t experienced for a long time: An orgasm was steadily building within my testicles. I promptly pulled my dick from Heather’s sexy pussy, set my shaft on her back, and let loose with a huge blast of thick, white, sticky cum. Four long ropes of semen were expelled from my balls. There was a lot of power behind my ejaculation, with a few strands of goo landing on Heather’s hair that dipped slightly below her shoulders. To me, it was truly a beautiful sight. I had missed seeing it.

“You could have come inside me, Eddie,” were the first words out of Heather’s mouth. “I wouldn’t have minded!”

I told her bluntly in return, “Heather, I want to be sexually active at my advanced age—not a father. There’s a huge difference between those two things. Anyway, I am eternally grateful for this terrific fuck. It was wonderful and it restored my self-esteem in a certain important area. Thank you so much! I hope you liked it too. I did my best to please you!”

“I figure you fully deserved it,” she reminded me. “Eddie, consider it payback for the hundreds of things, big and small, you’ve done for me over these past 12 years.”

We moved to the closest leather chair and embraced and smooched for several minutes. It was quite enjoyable. Heather sat on my lap for the first time since she was eight years old. After about ten minutes of romancing, curiosity overtook me. I asked her, “Okay, Heather, so how many different guys have put their dicks in your vagina in your young life so far—and are you sure mine felt the best?”