Beauty and Jim

By Twain Templeton

Jim, a sixty year old retiree, lives in wooded, Midwest hills. A sound, a shaking of his cabin, wakes him. After trying to open his front door he realizes that something is leaning on it. Jim finds a beautiful, unconscious young woman, dressed only in a torn and stained 1970’s summer dress. He brings her inside, realizes how cold she is, bathes her, puzzled that she isn't scratched or bruised.

She’s the embodiment of a fantasy woman who has been in his subconscious for at least thirty years. Jim places Beauty in his bed. She sleeps through the night. He sleeps in his “big room.”

Beauty awakes in the morning. She thinks in limited English words. Jim is drinking a second cup of coffee when she appears in the kitchen, holding the dress in front of her naked body. Jim is cautious at first, grateful that she’s at least twenty. She has amnesia. That doesn't diminish the fact that she has a beautiful, spontaneous personality. Beauty is attracted to him. He’s amazed but delighted, cautious and protective of her. Beauty is genuinely childlike and, equally, foxy as a vixen in heat, wise as a peaceful, old woman.

An initial, tentative series of touches lets Jim know that Beauty welcomes his sensitive advances. Jim takes it slow but Beauty is an intoxicating blend of fresh sexiness, inexperience intermixed with instinctual, enthusiastic readiness.

That first morning they begin a three day, sexually supercharged, love affair. He can’t deny Beauty’s passion for him, responds fully. Sex is really hot and mutually fulfilling. Jim is amazed at Beauty’s blend of purity and libido. Jim’s active, agile mind questions everything about Beauty while soaking-up her physical perfection. Her language skills improve quickly.

Jim knows he’s running a risk. A woman as young and fantastic as Beauty has to have people looking for her. She might have multiple personalities. Despite these concerns, Beauty and Jim’s fast, loving, learning curve is full of humor and tenderness. Why she wants a sixty year old guy, despite the fact that he’s in good shape, makes no sense to Jim.

Jim begins to grow weary. She revives him every time but, sixty is sixty. He knows she really loves him. He knows that is crazy. He knows it’s true.

Jim’s old enough to know that it can’t last. He let’s go to the power and profundity of her company. They experience out-of-body moments during lovemaking. For Beauty they are part of being in love. That perspective adds to her mystery and allure.

On their third day, when shooting pains between Jim’s shoulders are warning him to stop, he can’t. Beauty is, literally, irresistible.
Is she Aphrodite or a siren loving him to ruin?

On a promised walk they have a fun and funny encounter with a buck. Jim is weary, tells Beauty he has another surprise for her, a hot tub.

After an unexpected, comical return visit by the buck, Beauty and Jim make love one more ecstatic time.

In the afterglow of lovemaking, Jim faints.

At this point, the beginning of Chapter 24, Beauty and Jim the novel is eighty-five percent complete. Everything shifts. The source of Beauty’s roots are revealed in a stunning way.

Jim discovers that he hasn't simply fainted, he’s really out of his body, alone,

The last five chapters reveal where Beauty came from, who was looking for her and what will happen to Beauty and Jim, the couple.

For the purpose of the synopsis, in keeping with my vision for Beauty and Jim, I won't describe its grand finale.

I will include a very few words from the Epilogue:

“We're going to take plenty of time before we tell anyone about all this."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twain Templeton
• Release date: Feb 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310844171

Twain Templeton

I'm a very secretive person.

Book preview

Beauty and Jim

by: Twain Templeton

copyright 2015 [e-mail]

all rights reserved under the Berne Convention

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Chapter 1 - Arrival

My cabin shook me from slumber.

I've lived alone so long I know every vibration, especially sound, but this was different. Something had hit my cabin, hard. Throwing on jeans and leather flip-flops I left my only bedroom and moved toward the front door. Picking up an old table leg for protection, I turned the knob.

It resisted.

There's weight on the door. A critter, maybe, I thought.

I'm not so isolated that I don't have electricity and, after I turned on the outdoor light, I tried the knob again.

Don't force it, Jimbo, I told myself, who knows what could fall in on you.

Listening for animal sounds I heard nothing. It was late winter, mild for March but there'd been a steady, light rain. With the wind, upper forties felt colder.

I grabbed a flashlight and a little camera, went through my big room to the kitchen and out its back door. My dog Leaf (he loved to chew on leaves) had been gone long enough but I was still conscious of his absence. It would have been good to have him with me.

I'm sixty and have known how to apply stealth for many years. I went around front so I'd have a well hidden view of the door.

When I peeked around the corner I saw that it was a critter, a young one. Barefoot, barely covered in some kind of summer dress, her legs splayed-out from her slumped body, her back up against my front door, she was out cold I hoped, for her sake. I aimed my camera and took a couple of long shots, listening for any sounds.

It was quiet with no unusual night sights.

Have to bring her in first, find out why she's here later. Open the door from inside and catch her as she falls, I told myself. I went back through the kitchen.

Taking a deeper breath I turned the front doorknob hard enough, catching the door and then the young woman, pulling her into my cabin.

She was breathing, in deep sleep.

Thoughts ran on my mind, Thank goodness she looks to be at least twenty, how much harder the repercussions of taking her in might be if she was younger.

I'm sixty and I appreciate beauty as much now, maybe more than I did thirty years ago. I looked all over her.

She was the essence of beauty.

Despite the moderate March day her toenail skin was blue, her lovely legs white with cold. The dress had enough tears to see she was naked underneath.

I put a small pillow under her head, took another photo of her, head to toe, then a portrait of her lovely face. After turning off the outdoor light and waiting thirty seconds, listening, I walked outside again, table leg in hand.

When I was fifty I removed myself, as much as possible, from the world. I'd climbed many mountains, fought the good fight. Now I didn't seek confrontations, business or personal. I am protective of my cabin, my only home.

Halfway up my drive I stopped to listen again.

Nothing but lighter wind and soft rain.

Beauty, in her moist dress, still slept on the pillow. I did what I would have done if cold and wet myself, pulled her to the tub slowly to avoid burned skin, ran the water, not too hot.

Oh, I was pleased to be about to lift the dress off her young body. Any man, and many women, who say they would consider that an unpleasant chore lie about more than that.

I'm not the beast but Beauty was in my home, in need of help.

I leaned her against my knees as I sat on the closed toilet. It's a small bathroom. I keep things clean, especially there and in the kitchen.

I'd placed her on a thick oval rug and, as I pulled the peasant dress up, I had to lift a wide, sewn-in elastic band over her breasts. Her thighs weren't scratched but, oh Beauty, her mons veneris took hold of me.

She was a very light brown, copper blonde and the soft hair below her belly was the most beautiful I'd ever seen. It was wispy, untrimmed, but the way it grew was more gentle than the breeze I'd just felt. From above I could see only the top of her slit, as lovely as her soft fur.

Her arms were limp making removal of the dress tricky. She may be asleep, I said to myself, "but she deserves TLC. She's really been through something."

As the dress came off I embraced her arms to lower them gracefully. What I saw is hard to describe.

Beauty's breasts were perfect. They were a full, moderate size with matching gentle slopes that ended in nipples still a little stiff from cold, ones that had small areolas matching the color of her hair.

Her breasts, as full as her size could gracefully be, rested close to each other but curved slightly away from center, making each one equally perfect.

Unable to resist I reached down with the back of my right hand, touched the tip of her right nipple. Beauty moved slightly, breath stirred. Still she slept.

Why wasn't she scratched, my mind asked, if her dress was torn?

I turned the water off at tub-half-full, checked its heat. Kneeling next to Beauty I reached around and under her, breathed in consciously to give my healthy, aging body good strength to lift and lower her. When her head fell toward me I used my upper left arm and shoulder to support her. I tucked her shoulder length hair under her head which I rested on a folded towel at tub's top.

That face. So beautiful but... What the heck was she doing here ten miles from town? Could she have come from the Maum's place? Aren't they home? I wondered.

Later... to know where and why.

In that moment I was thrilled and quietly focused.

Everything about Beauty was exquisite, enticing; little mystery sleeping Beauty, now in my care.

I dipped a wash cloth into the water. It soothed my hand and forearm so I knew it must be having a profound effect on her. After squeezing out half the water I gently massaged the remaining cold from her neck with the cloth. Her skin relaxed in my hands.

I lifted and washed her slender, beautifully curved back in the same way, then eased her head to rest on the towel again.

Soaking it in the water next to her tapered waist I rinsed her belly and chest up to her breasts. One barely touched the side of my first finger, made me feel like a teenager.

After soaking the cloth again I moved it around on her belly, debating.

Down I went with the cloth, up and down her thighs, her knees, the inside of her thighs, under them, moving them apart just enough.

I cleaned each foot, checking for abrasions. I saw none.

She couldn't have travelled too far, I thought. So strange.

I brought the cloth back to her belly, moved it with circular, flat motions. I was in disbelief that this was happening while delighting in the fact that it was.

Good thing I'm sixty, it would be a lot harder to tame my passion if I was young, I concluded, agreeing with myself.

I moved the wash cloth slowly between her thighs, opening them a little more, moving my right hand over that intoxicating mound and down, under her sex to the place between her beautiful ass cheeks, moved the cloth there, enough to refresh it.

As I folded the cloth over I brought it back up between her lower lips which yielded softly, as soft as the little sigh that altered the purrs of her breathing.

I wanted to release my fingers from the cloth, to touch her softness in warm water, knew she might awake.

Some might judge that as pervy. Only I know what a literal, living doll she was. Yes, I wanted to caress her, big time, but I was already into responsibly caring for my unexpected guest. I had brought Beauty inside my cabin, my little home.

Bath finished I wrapped her in a big towel and placed her in my bedroom easy chair. After putting clean flannel sheets on my bed I made sure she was dry, even between her toes. I laid her in my bed with a down comforter over the blanket and top sheet.

How could anyone sleep through all this? I asked the air.

I could have called the cops, maybe I would. I needed to learn a lot more before contacting anyone.

Sure, fantasies about what might happen next raced in my mind.

Dream on, Jim, I thought, lucidly aware of our age difference.

I slept on a futon in the big room.

* * * *

Morning light shone in, beckoning Beauty.

The part of her spirit life that had been journeying in sleep re-entered her body. She felt it merge and that helped her wake up.

Her eyes opened.

Warm. She lifted the sheet, blanket and comforter. Oh... me, she thought.

Feeling good she sat up and looked around the room, saw a man's clothes. Why here am I?

Beauty looked down at her naked body, then around the room again.

Man room, she thought. Her torn and soiled dress was draped over the easy chair.

Man here...? she wondered.

I wind outside... wet. Light. House. Wind big.

Her lack of memory and the torn dress was all she had to go on. Her warm, clean body, fresh life after sleep, calmed her.

She threw the comforter covered sheet back and swung her legs out of bed to stand. Making a face she pushed three fingers down gingerly on her lowest belly.

Ohhh, she uttered quietly, expressing the ache she felt in her bladder.

Not knowing where to go Beauty hurried into the hall and found the bathroom. It was bright. She glanced into the large mirror reflecting her beautiful body but it didn't mean much to her. She turned around to be seated. It felt good to squirt out.

* * * *

I had been awake since six, an hour earlier than usual. It had taken me more than an hour to return to sleep after putting Beauty in my room.

All the thoughts, Who is she? Where did she come from? She looks like a goddess but, is she nuts? Shouldn't I call the police? I'm sixty, she can't be more than twenty-one. Will they believe me? She's the manifestation of my wildest fantasy. Will I let that outweigh reason? What will she say when she wakes-up? Will she accuse me of something? had come fast until sleep finally carried me off.

I put the rolled-up futon, covered by a simply patterned woven blanket, against the wall behind a four-chair dining table I'd built a few years before. I was washing some dishes when the water pressure dipped.

She's up, I said to myself. I'd already decided to wait for Beauty to find me.

Chapter 2 - I Wait

If you haven't lived beyond fifty, haven't lived alone multiple years while, truly, maintaining a psychologically healthy self-profile, one that makes it possible to function well despite old and heavy personal baggage, you may not understand who I am.

Waiting for Beauty, despite the mystery and potential danger, was sweet intoxication. She was, literally, too good to be true. Would she turn into my worst nightmare? My gut said no. Someone that beautiful, with a sleeping baby's innocent face, just couldn't be the main character in a horror movie.

Watch-out, Jim, I warned myself, Venus Fly Traps look good to flies. She may be the victim of a situation that will be focused on your home now, whether or not the 'bad guys' know that she's here yet.

I was married once, thirty-five years ago. I had been an aggressively confident, outgoing personality, overcompensating for childhood shocks. My bride had been a lovely, wounded bird, looking to me to brighten her living room. Once we matured we realized that both of us had been clueless about ourselves. We divorced after seven years.

I've been single ever since. The few relationships I've had, one five years long, all had the same problem... me. My childhood ghosts made me a typical control freak, attempting to make the exterior perfect, putting unacceptable pressure on my lovers.

At sixty I've let go of my big disappointments, no children, no great career heights. I've been able to let go, primarily, because I've been honest with myself.

On the outside I'm still a decent looking man.

Now, waiting in the new day for Beauty, I was like a kid waiting for Santa. Did I expect gifts? She already was one. I had no idea if Beauty would be open to me.

It could end badly. I could be falsely accused of something. I could be hurt or worse if the 'bad guys' found Beauty with me. That was part of the excitement. Excitement rather than fear. By nature I'm optimistic. By experience, I'm cautious and realistic.

The physical manifestation of my fantasies had been naked in my arms less than twelve hours before. She'd slept in my bed. I was sixty. I didn't want to wake-up from this living dream before it had a chance run its course. I'd be careful. I made a conscious decision not to assume only the worst could happen.

Lost in these thoughts, sipping a second cup of coffee, my excellent peripheral vision knew she'd arrived. From the kitchen table's cushioned bench I looked up at her standing where the big room and the kitchen meet.

Beauty was watching me, her liquid green eyes looked beyond my thoughts, into me.

She was holding the torn peasant dress in front of her. There was one place where holes, front and back, overlapped. I could see a belly skin through those holes.

She's naked, again, I delighted in thinking.

No want, Beauty said with a sweet, disarmingly dry voice, Dirty.

I don't blame you, I replied, let me get you a glass of water.

She's speaking English like a child, I noted. I felt an immediate bond with her straightforwardness, wondered if it meant she didn't feel threatened.

My mind is so damn active.

I handed the glass to her right hand. She held the dress against her body, it seemed, because she had nowhere else to put it. She drank all the water.

I'll get more, I said. She drank the second glass.

I have plenty of T-shirts in my bedroom dresser. They'll be big on you but they're comfortable.

Beauty gazed in my eyes again and nodded just enough to connect before she turned away.

The anticipation of that turn, another chance to drink in her perfect shape, thrilled me.

How can I describe the exhilaration of seeing her naked, her beautiful hair, her graceful movements? She didn't walk self-consciously, nor did she walk to tease, not a bit. Beauty walked with beauty. I was blown away.

I adored her shoulders, arms, back, waist and, you know, there isn't a word in English fine enough so... I adored her firm derriere which capped perfectly proportioned legs.

I went to the sink and poured out the last of the coffee, looked out the kitchen window. It was a clear day. The outside thermometer read forty-two. My forced-air furnace, two years new, was set at sixty-eight.

I'm still active, have a high metabolism, good genes. All that has been offset by the emotional baggage I carried too many years, baggage that eventually made me gun shy.

Today, if I walked into the local watering hole and found myself in the company of women closer to my age, some would like my looks and persona. I'd still feel awkward, fearful of another bad relationship, wondering if they had big hidden issues.

Suddenly, the Beauty making me forget all second thoughts, was back. She'd chosen one of my favorites, a faded olive green T-Shirt that had, over time, grown thinner, slippery satin to the touch. The sewn-in collar hung left, exposing her shoulder.

She stood looking directly into me again. I looked at her, then to where her breasts pressed those perfect nipples against the shirt. They weren't erect but they still greeted me well. When I looked up I knew she had followed my gaze. All she did was stare, taking me in.

I'm Jim, I said, unable to take my eyes off her.

I... I meet... Jim. I... she tried to respond. Her sweet voice was clearer. She didn't look puzzled. She simply didn't remember.

The water had helped, made me glad my cabin's system is filtered.

Don't you remember your name? I asked.

I... not.

I moved across the kitchen to be closer to her. I can't explain why it felt natural to place my hands on her shoulders. When I did, I felt her body accept me, trust me.

That was a heavenly surprise. I guided her to one bench seat. As she took it I tapped another glass of water, put it in front of her. She drank more than half. I sat across from her.

In my mind I've been calling you Beauty, I told her. Is that alright with you?

She looked into my eyes again. Dang, she had me by the eyeballs! What was it with this girl/woman?

She was turning me into a sixty year old youngster. Experience told me to be cool, to relax and enjoy this unanticipated encounter with her.

Beauty sound... Jim. Thank drink.

I thought I heard an accent in her few words. Could she be from overseas, Canada?

Maybe you hit your head when you fell against my door last night. Let me have a look.

I moved behind her bench seat to carefully run my fingers over the back of her head, the top, searching for a lump. Her hair was full of thin strands colored between ultra-light brown and blond with a hint of red. I was surprised that her skull was smooth, perfect.

I sensed her enjoyment. Touching her furthered the comfortable bond I was feeling.

Everything's just fine, I said softly, returning to my side of the kitchen table. I took in her presence again. She received my attention evenly.

"I assume you had been running because your dress was torn but your arms and legs weren't scratched. It's possible, especially if you were already exhausted from running, that impact with my door caused amnesia. It's odd, though. If you hit your head hard enough to be knocked unconscious, you should have a bump.

Do you remember why you were in the woods?"

I looked from her eyes down to her breasts, hidden from view yet moving the fabric in and out slightly as she breathed. When I looked up she was