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The sound of her name caused Monica Doyle to look up from the envelopes she’d just removed from the mailbox and glance past the open vestibule door into the hallway beyond. The twenty-four year old smiled when she saw the white haired septuagenarian stepping out of the front apartment, but delayed a response until the woman closed and locked her door, taking those few moments to lock her mailbox as well.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pulaski,” Monica said as the woman turned back in her direction.

“Good afternoon, Monica,” the building owner echoed as Monica stepped into the hallway. “I’m so glad to see you. I was beginning to worry that you might have gotten stuck at work again.”

Monica glanced at the watch on her wrist, noting that she was indeed running about a half hour late, but confused as to why that would’ve worried Sylvia.

“I would’ve been so disappointed if you had to miss our dinner tonight,” the older woman said, almost as if she had heard Monica’s unanswered question.

“Dinner?” Monica said, making it more of a question than a statement.

“You haven’t forgotten, have you?” Sylvia asked, a touch of disappointment clear in her tone.

‘Oh God, was that tonight?’ Monica asked herself, having so put the invitation out of her mind that she had indeed forgotten it.

The brown haired veterinary assistant was just finishing up what had indisputably been an extremely trying day, made all the more so by one of her co-workers at the Westside Animal Clinic going home sick after lunch. It had been too late in the day to call in a replacement, so Monica had to do double duty for the rest of it. All she wanted to do now was have a bit of dinner and crash in front of the television.

That notion, however, vanished in the wind as she saw the look of expectation on her landlady’s face. She had indeed promised Sylvia that she would come and didn’t have it in her heart to disappoint her now.

“Of course not,” Monica lied, putting on a look of expectation even as she tried to imagine an excuse she could use to make only a abbreviated appearance at dinner. One that wouldn’t hurt the old lady’s feelings.

“Excellent,” Sylvia said her smile returning. “I just have to run around to the corner grocery for a minute, but dinner should be ready about six-fifteen.”

With that she was gone.


Monica had lived in one of the second floor apartments of the two story walkup seven months now, and up until six weeks ago had little contact with the owner other than dropping off her rent. In fact, that was what she had been doing the night the elderly widow had come to the door in a state of panic. Her beloved poodle, Puddles, had gotten a small bone stuck in his throat and was choking. Reacting instinctively, Monica had picked up the small dog and used a technique she’d learned at the clinic to safely dislodge the bone.

From that point on, Mrs. Pulaski never missed an opportunity to show her gratitude. Every simple hello carried an inquiry if she needed anything and, more days than not, Sylvia would just show up at her door with a treat from her kitchen. Monica didn’t mind too much, especially since the treats were usually delicious. At least she hadn’t minded until two weeks ago when Sylvia’s desire to do something nice for Monica expanded to include an interest in her love life. Or more precisely, her lack of one.

“No one should be alone,” Sylvia had told her one night over tea and cookies, “especially not someone as young and pretty as you.”

Monica tried to explain that her work schedule allowed little time for dating. In fact, it had been her work hours that had been a primary cause in the collapse of her last serious relationship – just before she’d moved into Sylvia’s building.

“Nonsense, if something is really important, you make the time,” Sylvia insisted, thinking that a poor excuse.

Thinking that agreeing with the older woman was the easiest way to put the subject behind her, Monica promised to make more of an effort to meet someone. No sooner had those words left her mouth than she realized her mistake.

“Wonderful, I’m so glad you feel that way,” Sylvia pounced with the intensity of a jungle cat, “because it just so happens that I have a very nice grandson, Andrew is his name, and I think the two of you would really hit it off.”

Before Monica could say a word to discourage her, Sylvia was expounding a well practiced litany of the virtues of her only single grandchild. Including the fact that he was thirty-two years old, quite handsome, in her unbiased opinion, well educated, and a partner in an up and coming accounting firm.

“He does sound quite nice,” Monica said as she tried to think of an excuse that would express her disinterest without hurting Sylvia’s feelings. Finally she settled on the fact that the clinic was understaffed at the moment and she didn’t know when she would be able to find the time to meet Andrew.

An excuse that was repeated Büyükesat Escort each time Sylvia brought the subject up. Eventually, Monica hoped, the older woman would decide it was a lost cause and give up on it. What she didn’t realize was that women like Sylvia Morgan thrived on lost causes.

After two weeks, though, Andrew’s name stopped coming up and Monica erroneously concluded that Sylvia had finally gotten the message. With the matter no longer on her mind, Monica didn’t think twice when she replied to a casual inquiry about her weekend plans from her neighbor across the hall, Jane Walsh.

“No plans at all,” she told the curly haired blonde as they passed each other on the stairs. “I’m just glad to finally have a weekend off.”

It wasn’t until she reached the base of the landing that she saw Sylvia standing by the basement door, a basket of laundry in her hand.

“Did I just hear you say that you were off this weekend?” Sylvia asked, the excitement in her voice quite clear.

“Well, yes,” Monica said after a brief hesitation, adding in way of explanation, “there was a last minute change in schedules.”

“Wonderful,” Sylvia beamed. “because it just so happens that Andrew has Broadway tickets for this Saturday night. He originally asked me to go, but I know he’d much rather take a pretty girl instead.”

Taking a breath, Monica glanced up the stairs where she saw that Jane had lingered just long enough to have overheard the exchange. The blonde gave Monica a look of sympathy, then vanished into the front apartment. As she closed the door behind her, Jane was thankful that she had a steady boyfriend and her days of being fixed up were long behind her.

‘Truth time,’ Monica thought as she turned her attention back to Sylvia, hoping what the nice woman wouldn’t be offended by what she was about to say.

“Sylvia, I need to tell you something,” Monica said, taking a second long breath, “something that I probably should’ve told you right in the beginning.”

Sylvia looked at her with a mix of confusion and interest.

“I’m sure that Andrew is as wonderful a person as you described him to be,” Monica said, “but the thing is, I don’t date … men.”

“Oh?” Sylvia said, her tone and expression saying that she didn’t immediately catch Monica’s meaning.

Rather than trying to clarify it further, at least immediately, Monica decided to give Sylvia a few more moments to think about it.

“You mean you’re a …” Sylvia started to say, hesitating on the word lest she be wrong.

Monica smiled and nodded her head slowly in the affirmative.

“Oh,” Sylvia repeated, this time with a clear understanding.

Ever since coming out in her freshman year of college, Monica had faced moments like this with trepidation. It was impossible to know how anyone was going to react when she told them. Friends who she’d thought would freak merely shrugged their shoulders, while others she thought of as family unexpectedly disappeared from her life.

“My dear, why didn’t you simply tell me that in the first place?” the old woman laughed. “I never would’ve tried to fix you up with my Andrew. Lord, what a disaster that would’ve been.”

“I guess I wasn’t sure how you would take it,” Monica replied, recalling, but not mentioning, that one of her own aunts, a decade younger than Sylvia, had called her a disgusting pervert and not spoken to her since.

“Well, I know that some folks my age have a problem with that sort of thing,” Sylvia said, almost if she had read Monica’s mind, “but we’re not all homophobic idiots. I’ll simply have to find someone else for Andrew.”

“You don’t know how glad I am that you understand,” Monica said, her sense of relief quite genuine.

“Think nothing of it, child,” Sylvia replied. “We are what we are, and that can’t be changed.”

‘It’s a pity that you didn’t have a granddaughter instead,” Monica laughed, caught up in the moment.

“Sorry, no granddaughter,” Sylvia smiled, a fact Monica already knew from earlier conversations, “but, since you brought it up, I do have a great-niece who is a year and a half older than Andrew. Heather is her name and you know what, she doesn’t date men either.”

Before Monica could say another word, Sylvia had said that it just also so happened that Heather was coming to dinner this Friday night. What better opportunity for the two of them to meet?

“This Friday?” Monica said, trying to stall while she desperately tried to come up with a way to graciously decline.

“Yes,” Sylvia confirmed. “I did hear you tell Jane that you didn’t have any plans, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” Monica said with a barely perceptible touch of resignation.

“Wonderful,” Sylvia beamed. “I know you and Heather are going to get along splendidly. Not like that Janine she used to date, I knew that girl was trouble the first time I met her. She was nowhere near good enough for my Heather. Breaking Beşevler Escort up with her was the best thing that could’ve happened.”

That last comment sent a warning bell off in Monica’s head. Rebound relationships were on her short list of things to be absolutely avoided. Circumspectly, she inquired how long ago that had been.

“Oh, it must’ve been two, no, make that three months ago,” Sylvia replied. “Don’t you worry, dear, I’m sure she’s totally over her by now.”

‘Oh yeah,’ Monica heard her inner voice say even as she forced a smile, ‘three months is more than enough time.’

Still, there was little she could do but resign herself to dinner with Sylvia and her great-niece. How bad could it be, she asked herself, not really wanting to consider an answer.


Closing the door to her apartment behind her, Monica stepped into the small living room and dropped down on the couch, letting out a very loud sigh as she did. As not looking forward to dinner as she was, Monica promised herself that she would nevertheless be as sociable as possible. Even if Heather turned out to be the disaster most fix-ups, at least in her experience, turned out to be.

A glance down at the slightly stained scrubs she had worn home reminded Monica that she needed to hop in the shower before changing clothes. She might be used to the smell of the animals she handled all day, but others weren’t so acclimated. Normally, she would change and wash up before leaving the clinic, but, the way the day had gone, she had rushed out the minute her shift was done.

Once in the bathroom, she stripped off her scrubs and the underwear beneath it, depositing both in the hamper. Reaching past the shower curtain around the old fashioned bear claw tub, she turned on the taps, adjusting the water mix until it was a comfortable temperature. Then she turned the small lever that sent it through a rubber hose up to the showerhead, letting it sprinkle downward another few moments before climbing in under it.

Monica closed her eyes and lifted her head, allowing the warmth of the water to engulf her. A hot shower at the end of a bad day was something she looked forward to. As she enjoyed the wetness against her skin, she let her mind wander and found herself entertaining a hopeful possibility.

‘What if, this time, things turn out different?’ she thought, ‘Heather and I might actually hit it off.’

As nice a notion as that was, Monica dismissed the idea almost as quickly as it had formed. Things like that only happened in Lifetime movies, not real life.

Stepping out from under the shower stream, Monica reached for a pouf sponge and body wash, working both across her body until it was covered with a thick, soapy lather. A slippery film that allowed her hand to smoothly roam back and forth across her upper body.

“Mmmmm,” Monica moaned softly as her motions sent small ripples of pleasure across her body.

Stepping back under the water, Monica’s hand found its way deep between her legs, causing her to let out a long, soft moan as her fingers passed over her sensitive clit. Masturbating in the shower had been one of her few joys since breaking up with her girlfriend, but Monica couldn’t remember the last time she’d not been too tired at the end of the day to do so. Now, with pleasing warmth spreading across her body, she couldn’t resist.

Time slowed as her hands darted back and forth across her body, one playing with her clit while the other did the same with her breasts, bringing her equally sensitive nipples to rock hardness. It didn’t take more than a few minutes for her legs to began to feel weak beneath her and a long absent but quite familiar pressure to begin to built up inside of her.

She closed her eyes as she leaned against the far wall behind the shower curtain, her face reflecting the anticipation of the whirlwind within her. She was close, painfully close; it would only take a little more to put her over the edge.

“Oh yes, yes,” she whispered softly to herself as her fingers once more found her special spot, “oh my …”

Suddenly her voice went from a whisper to an excited shout, the volume of which rang off the walls.

“Fuck!” Monica cried out in distress as the water around her abruptly turned ice cold.

As fast as she could, she turned the water valves off, and with the fading shower went any desire she had to complete what she had started. As much as she loved this old building, the plumbing sometimes took unexpected turns.

“Can this day get any worse?” Monica called out to the empty room.

This time an answer did come to her. Having totally blocked the dinner from her mind, Monica only now realized that Sylvia had never described her great-niece other than saying she was a few years older than Andrew. She certainly hadn’t shown her a photo, something she had done with Andrew a few days after she’d first mentioned him. Monica Cebeci Escort didn’t want to read too much into that, but couldn’t help but think that couldn’t be a good sign. She liked to think she valued personalities over looks, but even that had its limits.

Monica finished drying herself off and, wrapping the towel back around her, headed back into the bedroom. She put on a clean bra and panties, then spent a few minutes in front of the closet deciding what to wear. After some consideration, she decided on a plain, almost conservative gray dress that she liked to think of as a ‘first date’ outfit – not that she’d had much occasion to wear it this last year.

Checking her appearance in the mirror, Monica was pleased with the image looking back at her. The dress was respectable enough to wear to a casual dinner, yet at the same time showed, if not a lot of flesh, at least the shape of what was beneath it. Her body might not be centerfold material, Monica thought, but she’d hadn’t ever had a complaint from those who’d had occasion to examine it more intimately.

Slipping her feet into a comfortable pair of flats, she headed for the kitchen and took a bottle of wine out of the back of the refrigerator. The wall clock said it was half past six, just enough for her to be fashionable late, but not exceedingly so.


As she might have expected, Sylvia was at the door seconds after she knocked, welcoming her as if she hadn’t seen her in a week. The elderly woman complimented her on her dress, even as she directed her towards the living room and its very comfortable couch.

“Heather called a few minutes ago,” Sylvia mentioned as she began to step back into the kitchen to check on dinner. “She had a bit of trouble finding a parking spot, but should be here in about ten minutes.”

‘So much for being the last to arrive,’ Monica thought, her plan for alleviating the awkwardness of a first meeting tossed out the window.

With a little time now to kill, she found herself drawn to the collection of photographs on the nearby piano, wondering which might be Heather.

“If you’re looking for Heather, she’s not in that bunch,” Sylvia said as she stepped back into the room, noting Monica’s interest in her collection of family photos.

“I wasn’t, I mean I …” Monica hesitantly said, a bit embarrassed at having been caught.

“Oh of course you were,” Sylvia laughed. “I know that if I was in your place, I certainly would’ve been.”

Monica smiled, realizing as she did that her curiosity was indeed only natural.

“I guess I should’ve shown this to you in the first place,” Sylvia said as she took a small frame off a side table on the other side of the room, handing it to Monica. “Its a few years old, but she hasn’t really changed much.”

Monica tried to be nonchalant as she took the photograph, determined to act as if Heather’s appearance was the furthest thing from her mind. Especially if Heather turned out to be as plain looking as some of the other girls in the pictures she had already looked at. The family resemblance among the cousins seemed to be quite strong – with average being the description that most came to mind.

They say there’s an exception to every rule, and it appeared that Heather was it. The woman in the picture appeared to be about twenty, an estimate partially based on the college basketball jersey she wore. About two inches taller than Monica’s five foot four, Heather had an athlete’s build, which seemed appropriate, seeing that she was holding a state championship trophy in her arms. Her blonde hair was cut exceedingly short, in an almost boyish style, framing warm, pleasant features that centered on bright brown eyes. As much as Monica hated labels, she would have described the girl’s appearance as soft butch.

“My Heather is certainly something, isn’t she?” Sylvia smiled as she looked over Monica’s shoulder at the photograph.

‘That she is,’ Monica thought, reminding herself at the same time that the photo had to be over a decade old. She knew women that had undergone total transformations in less than half that span.

A new question came to Monica as Sylvia headed back towards the kitchen. If Heather still looked anything like she did in that photo, why in heaven’s name would she need to be fixed up? You would think that girls would be beating down her door. Was there something she wasn’t being told? At face value, at least, Heather was definitely the sort of woman Monica dreamed about, but never met outside of those imaginings.

The consideration of both questions was interrupted by a knock at the door, followed a few beats later by a strong voice calling out, “Aunt Sylvia?” One way or the other, Monica thought, she was about to get her answers.

As Sylvia headed for the door, Monica rose from the couch and moved to a few feet behind her, just close enough to be introduced once Heather had stepped inside. She watched as Sylvia wiped her hands on her apron, then opened the apartment door.

Heather had her back to Monica as she stepped in, wrapping her arms around Sylvia in a manner that prevented Monica from getting a good look at her face. What was obvious, even from that angle, that the thirty-four year old still had a well developed physique and an even shorter hairstyle than she’d had in the photograph.

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