Fred showed up in a sparkly new track suite - mostly white with some baby blue highlights. His hair glistened from the gel. He held out an artisan coffee cup. His demeanor was extra gentleman-like. He knew that this was a date. He treated it like a date. His eyes were locked on my eyes, trying hard not to stare at my body. He was trying real hard to be on his best behavior, like he was auditioning for my graces. I kind of liked it. I smirked at how he complimented that my eyes were even more beautiful in the sunlight. When I turned, his hand impulsively slapped me on the butt as I walked away from him to my side of the net.

I had prepared to seduce him as well. I was wearing a skimpy tennis skirt. Each step created a wave in the fabric that licked at the bottom of my butt cheeks. I put a nice sideways say into my hips to give the skirt hem nice random ripples to give his eyes a workout to look for my thong. I gave him plenty of brown, bubblelicious, bare-skin bum to look at. And if he should glimpse my thong, I made sure that he knew he had succeeded by contrasting the white skirt with a vividly purple thong.

For the top, I was wearing a snug crop top from combed jersey cotton. The soft cotton was sure to move around and stretch a lot to give him all kinds of views on my titties as I'd lean forward to let him glimpse deep, jump high to make them bounce hard, and wring my body for hard hits to make the fabric shift around my braless nipples.

But things didn't work out that way. I leaned forward to ready myself to receive the serve and also let my titties hang down to create that beautiful dropped shape as well as the deep tunnel between them for him to gaze into. He gave me a look warm serve. He thanked me for the exercise. What the heck? He always had his eyes on me and now he talked about how good exercise was.

When we picked up the balls, I put one in between my boobs and made sure to throw him that one. He smiled and thanked me for the ball without any dirty glow in his eyes. He seemed pale.

I tried again by going for a water break. When we were next to each other, I rested my hand on his shoulder to stand on one foot and adjust the other foot. I leaned my body against his and especially pressed my boobs against his chest. He stood patiently. I've never met a guy whom I couldn't give a boner with that move. He looked pale and talked about the importance of not too much and not too little sodium in one's diet.

My seduction effort was a complete bust. We split roughly evenly who won sets. He let me win the final one to be a good sportsman. He walked away not only with his body but also with my belief that I was an absolute crack bomb for old people.

A few days later, I stumbled on something in a medical chart. It said "ED." I was slowly learning all the medical jargon. I asked Amanda about it. She shook her head and said, "Erectile Dysfunction." With that new knowledge, I looked up Fred's chart and he had ED. Probably, once he had a real chance at bagging me, he knew that he'd only embarrass himself. Poor guy!

However, this new knowledge set me on a new path. I started reading medical charts vivaciously now. The drawers with the binders were near the reception desk. I'd start reading through them one by one. Obviously, I was looking for a chart with M for male and no ED. And as I got more premeditated about my lust crime, it dawned on me that D for dementia would be useful as well. Dan Watson's chart piqued my curiosity. He was seriously old with 84, had no ED, and a heavy case of dementia.

To meet him, I delivered his dinner to his room. He was semi-bedridden. He spent a lot of his time in bed, but he'd also roam around the room. After knocking on his door, I walked in with the tray. He was lying on his bed. His face was furrowed. He was a serious dinosaur. He was the peak of my fascination of very old age and sex. I would almost describe him as a carcass. He was so bony. His movements were so awkward. Having sex with him seemed like crossing a seriously forbidden zone. I placed his tray down and helped him to sit up.

"Mr. Watson, how are we feeling today?" I asked him with all the politeness of a young woman addressing an elder from a different time period.

He turned to me, turned the other way to lower the volume on his radio, and turned back to me. "Lovely, my dear!" he replied. He had modesty and kindness about him. His head shook a little bit as he talked. Yep, he was old, seriously old.

Over the next weeks, we got to know each other. I slowly groomed him for my devious ploy. He'd tell me how during World War II, he threw a grenade in Italy into a fascist bunker. He often told me the same story. He'd pause when he described the grass that his face was buried in when he threw himself to the ground after a sprint toward the bunker. The grass was a bit raspy and stringy. There was a scent of clover flowers to it. Two weeks later, he'd pause mid-conversation like something had entered his mind, "I have to tell you the most outrageous adventure that happened to me!" Then he'd tell me the story again.

Nobody would believe him if he told on me for what I was going to do to him. Amanda only gave me housekeeping tasks, nothing medical. However, I had watched her give patients a bath in their beds. So on a day when I new that there were two new nurses on shift, I took the patient washing cart and pushed it into Dan's room. I flicked on the "Do not disturb" light that would shine on the door way. The door had three lights on top. One was doctor present for anyone to quickly find the doctor. One was medical alarm for when Dan pressed the alarm button. One was "do not disturb" for procedures that required privacy. Once the light was flicked on, I knew that nobody would walk in.

I had to assure Dan that he already knew me. "Oh, right, I remembered," he said. I was never sure if he actually knew or was simply embarrassed not to know. He was standing in the window looking out at the street. When he recognized the bathing cart, he walked into the ensuite restroom. I followed him with the cart. His shaky fingers started unbuttoning his shirt buttons. I helped him slide the shirt back and pulled his undershirt over his head. His chest muscles were flabby. I looked at his body.

I crawled with excitement. I'm going to fuck that! He looked so alien! He looked so unsexy. I wanted to see his body get animated by sexual lust. I felt like a mad scientist in front of his latest creation about to push the on button anticipating full of curiosity and doubt what would happen. I kind of love the split reality moments. One moment you are in familiar reality. The next moment something completely unimaginable happens. That shift and that crack had me mesmerized.

I opened his pant buttons and zipper. He stepped out of it. His shorts were huge. I pulled them down. He had a real hanger. The thing was flaccid and lifeless as heck. It seemed stretched like something very worn out. Also his balls were hanging very low in a stretched-out ballsack. His pubic hair was wispy and long. It didn't seem sexy at all. I felt a bit revolted, but somehow that revolt was a turn-on. Going into that revolt was nasty and deplorable. I had a fetish for doing revolting things because there is so much emotion to it.

Easily I started by sponging him down. He patiently waited with his naked body, comforted by this being medical care by a professional nurse. I took my time to become familiar with his back, his belly, his arms, and also the breath of his body and mouth from being so close to him. I myself had reservations and anxiety about this. Exploring his body let me become familiar and relaxed about what was going on.

I locked the bathroom door. Then I soaped up the sponge and went for his groin. I really explored the space between his ballsack and his thighs. I circled around his penis. I circled his penis up and down. Not a drop of blood flooded into his penis. I kept playing with his balls and penis between my fingers. I let the penis drop between my fingers. I lifted his penis all the way up. I was testing if he would react. He didn't react. He had a checked out expression on his face like he was used to letting nurses do procedures to him.

I rinsed him off taking my sweet time because I was working up my courage to do the next thing. One my knees, I took his flaccid penis into my mouth. It was so soft and flabby that I could take a whole lot of it in. And then I let it glide out, caressing my tongue along it.

"What are you doing?" asked Dan.

"I'm sucking you off. Does it feel good, Dan?" I asked him back before I swirled my tongue around his penis head.

He seemed confused for a while. I kept sucking and licking life into his dick. And right when the floodgates of blood started opening and I got some heft into my mouth, he asked, "Why are you doing this?"

"Does it feel good, Dan?" I asked him. "You deserve to feel good. You are a World War II hero!"

"About damn time!" exclaimed Dan! "That ship ride home took forever!"

Now I could feel the gusto coming into Dan's penis. He was hardening up fast. I could see a spot of red spread from right next to his nose to all across his cheeks. His eyes became animated. His facial expression kind of hardened in a way that scared me a little, but I tried to discount it as him simply getting very focused on his dick. Not long, and I could ride my tongue all the way along his hard penis, a very long one indeed.

His hands found their way onto the pack of my head, fingers crawling in between my dreads to get a good grip. The stance in his hips firmed up. At the end of my downstroke, right when I tried to go back up as he was gagging me, he tried to thrust a little deeper into me. Not that the old me put up a real struggle, but we started struggling against each other as his lust drove him to hurt me a little bit.

When I pulled my face all the way back from his groin because I wanted real sex, his voice turned startlingly hard, "Finish, you whore!" I had never heard the word "whore" used in such a derogative way. Bitch, nigger, slut, and so on are almost turns of endearment that my friends and I toss around with ease and fun. However, his tone of voice carried the connotation that the word "whore" was completely unusable for decent company. And to label someone that was to label them a terrible deject thing. I was shocked what this friendly, docile man had turned into.

I stood up. His hands were trying to wrangle my face back to his dick, but his strength was that of a soft spring rain. I slid my panties off all the while he was fighting me without effect. The uproar and burst of emotion in that old man was impressive. I turned around. Grabbing his tick with my fist, I guided his tip to caress up and down my wet slit. When I dug his head in between my vulva, he was patient as he enjoyed feeling the sensation. When I left him at my entrance, he knew what to do: Push in!

With my hands pressing on the sink, my chest leaned forward and my side cheeks pressed against the mirror, steaming it up. He was riding me hard from behind. His jerky, jumpy old people motion hadn't smoothed out, but he had a terrible drive and itch with which he persecuted my pussy to get off. He had no regard for me but a sole focus to rub his penis head in and out of me. I felt ten times stronger than the man grabbing at me and ramming into me, but the fierceness was a hundred times of what I had ever felt. Feeling that fierceness was startling because it held me in suspension of what he might do, but it was also a delight to feel such an intense onslaught onto me.

Then his hands came up my belly and found my boobs. He grabbed for them clumsily and uncoordinated. Hungry, like he had been starved of touching boobs for decades, and with such greed as it were his last time, he fondled me. I felt awkward, even painful pinches. Yet there was no time to explore, he was so relentless like a caged-up bull that had been penned up for a very long time and was charging. Ouch! He found my nipples, he started pinching them hard, but I like to feel pain there because each sting of pain sets loose a wet draft in my pussy.

Finally, his fingers found my mouth. He made me suck his index finger and his thumb. In and out with harsh demand, he made me lick him. And then he whispered into my ear, "You filthy Italian whore, you don't deserve good American cock!" I have experienced my share of racism as a black woman, but I've never been mistaken for Italian or received Italian discrimination. He seemed lost in his own world of yesteryear. I gathered that having sex made him feel intensely guilty, and he pushed all that guilt away by seeing something completely undeserving in me. And that's why he rode me so hard. All that disgust that we was feeling, he let it out on me. I've never been pummeled so hard, had my arms grabbed so hard.

"Whore," he breathed again into my ear. His action was at a plateau. He no longer roughed me up harder. He didn't come. Almost as if a futility to coming had set into his mind, he seemed to struggle to get off. He couldn't get his nut to bust. The guilt seemed to hold him back. Somewhere in that realization, he was feeling that each time, he demeaned me more, he inched a bit closer to the release that he was craving so hard. He was panting, panting at the edge of considering to give up.