Chapter Text
There were many things that came with the territory of being the most feared and hated man in town. People didn't dare cut him off, if he sat or parked somewhere once it was his for good, and no one dared to bother him with foolish whims. It was a lonely life, but Michael Gold wouldn't have had it any other way. He was perfectly lonely.
Each day was more or less the same for him. First, he read the paper in the morning while having toast and eggs. After that he would get in his Cadillac and he would go to his pawn shop. He opened the shop at exactly 9:00 Monday through Saturday, and he closed it at exactly 6:00 in the evening. Before lunch, he would spend the time making calls regarding loans or rent. He would stop at Granny's around noon and he would sit at the counter at the very end. Halfway through his lunch, Miss Belle French would always take the only seat next to him, regardless of how many seats were free.
Belle French was the only person in town who spoke to him for casual purposes. She would do most of the talking and he would listen, but always with rapt attention. He would make what were, in his opinion, terribly poor attempts at humor, and she would giggle and touch his arm. He was not so foolish as to interpret it as flirting, no, Miss French was simply friendly. She likely pitied him. She was barely twenty-two, he was at least twenty years older than her. There was absolutely no chance of her having feelings for him. Regardless, her company was enjoyable, and entirely worth ignoring any desires for more than just lunchtime companionship,
Every evening, Michael arrived home fifteen minutes after closing. He had no social life beyond chatter with Miss French, so he always kept to his routine. As he did everyday, he parked his car neatly and stepped out, using his cane as an aid to exiting the low vehicle. He closed the door and limped slowly, opening his mailbox. He took the small pile in his hand, and he made his way into his house. He hung his coat, walking through the empty and cold house in the dark. He flicked the kitchen light switch on, leaning his cane up against the counter and tossing the pile of mail down. It was Tuesday, which meant it was Chinese food night, and the delivery boy would arrive in about half an hour.
He poured himself three fingers of scotch, and sat down at the counter. He pulled the envelopes over, sighing heavily. He set his cell phone bill to the side, threw away the standard automatically sent coupon book, and then he opened one containing a portion of someone's debt to him. Normally that would be the end of it, but today, there was one more letter. It was handwritten in pretty, feminine penmanship, and he tilted his head curiously. There wasn't postage, and there was no shipping information, no return address. All it said was 'Mr. Gold' and alongside it, there was a small heart.
Someone, likely a woman, had touched his mailbox and in turn, his mail, in order to slip a personal letter in the stack. Someone had broken the law simply to give him a letter. It was absolutely absurd. They could have stuck it in the door of his shop if they were too cheap to pay the price of a stamp.
He sighed, slowly opening it. He tilted his head in confusion as he pulled a face down photograph out. He flipped it over, gasping loudly at the sight before him, dropping it back onto the counter. There was no face shown, all he could see was from the neck down. But the woman in the photograph was, for the most part, nude. She wore red high heels, lacy black panties with red trim, and a matching bra. Her breasts were nearly spilling out, and he imagined that had she breathed the wrong way, he would have seen every inch of them. He yearned to see her face. The fact that he knew her body but not her face was pure torture. She was leaned up against an extensive bookshelf, and the added element of intelligence only aided in his arousal.
Mr. Gold was not a pervert, at least he didn't consider himself one. He didn't leer at women in the street, he didn't watch or read pornography, and he certainly didn't request nude photographs from women. The most salacious thing he did was take a quick peek at Miss French's rear and legs when she stood from her barstool or walked past his shop. But the woman in the photograph was just short of a goddess, and he wasn't blind. He was only a man, and a man who hadn't had intercourse or even kissed in over five years. He couldn't take his eyes off the woman and her porcelain skin, one hand splayed across her stomach, fingertips dipping into her panties and the other disappearing out of the shot near her face. He pretended it was because it had slipped between lips with enticing lipstick on for her to lightly suck and swirl her tongue around as she would around his...
Fuck.
He felt his pants grow significantly tighter, and he inwardly cursed his weak and easily influenced (lonely, old, lecherous) male body. He bit his lip and glanced around as if someone might be there, and he slowly reached down to palm himself through his pants. He was a horny old bastard, but really, how out of line was this? It wasn't as if it was sent via text message or email and could have potentially been accidental or the result of a malicious boyfriend. Whenever this stunning woman was, she had
him to see this, and likely wanted this reaction.
A shaking hand unzipped his pants, and he slowly eased himself out. He felt wrong sitting in his kitchen with his cock in his hand, but he could scarcely stop himself. Usually when he masturbated, it was in a steamy shower or under his silk sheets at night. But this woman had done a very naughty and bold thing, and it only felt right to do something a bit risqué in response. He sighed out as he began to stroke his sizable member, looking down at the picture. It was hard to get past not knowing the woman or her face, but he was far too aroused to care. He pressed his thumb into his swollen tip, spreading the small bead of moisture around the sensitive skin.
Mr. Gold moaned out as he stroked himself in an even pace, imagining it was the hand of the woman in the photo, moist from being inside herself. He began to pump himself faster, his grip firm and tight as he imagined her pussy would be, though his cool hand lacked the wet warmth her body would provide. He could tell she was mature yet young, likely in her twenties. Or at least he prayed, he would not be able to live with the shame and disgust if he found out he was stroking himself to a minor. He groaned lowly, murmuring an expletive. He set the photo down so his other hand could ease his balls from their place within his pants, and he gently caressed them. His hands were too large and too masculine to be just what he needed, but they were all he had.
Within five minutes of brisk pumping he was on the edge of orgasm. He fumbled in his pocket in order to pull his handkerchief out to catch his cum. His wrist twisted slightly and he moaned, his eyes on her still. Her breasts were supple and perky, but he very much wished she had sent her ass as well. He was an ass man first and foremost. But it wasn't a very pressing issue, and he was just about to cum. “Oh fuck..." He murmured it under his breath, the cloth positioned right at his tip.
And then his doorbell rang. He sat straight up, turning with his cock still in his hand. He glanced at his watch and sighed. It was his dinner, on time as usual. This stranger was throwing off his routine. He slowly stood up, tucking himself back inside, wincing from the strain. He grabbed his cane and began to walk, his gait even more uneven than usual. He took a bill out of his wallet once at the door. He did not need a teenager running around and telling the whole damn town he saw Mr. Gold answer the door with a raging hard-on. He pulled open the door once he got there, reaching a hand out for the bag. He tossed the boy his usual twenty dollar tip, thankful that was the only interaction needed. Since he owned the building the restaurant occupied, he didn't have to pay for his meals. He shut the door in his face with a curt nod, locking his door and limping back to the kitchen as quickly as he could. He set the bag on the counter, pulled his photo forward, and began to stroke himself more urgently. His erection was nearly painful from his orgasm being denied, so he wasted no time, tugging roughly. He gasped out as he came, using his handkerchief to catch the sticky fluid. He panted softly, sinking into the barstool as his leg grew weaker than it already was. He wiped himself carefully and tossed the soiled silk onto the counter, his mouth hanging open, his teeth barred a bit.
After a few minutes of recuperation he set about his normal evening. He, after washing his hands, finished his scotch, ate his dinner, and inspected the general area to make sure the cleaning woman didn't steal anything. Then he looked back at the photograph. What was he supposed to do with it? Holding onto it felt wrong, but throwing it away felt even worse. It would be a lack of respect. For some reason, this woman wanted him to see this. And, he was nervous about somebody else finding it (he was 100% certain somebody rummaged through his garbage on occasion, probably the rat of a mechanic) and while he could shred it, he couldn't bring himself to.
He walked into his office and pulled out a locked box with several rolls of money in it. He switched the funds into his wall safe behind his hinged painting. If he was to be honest with himself, for some strange reason, the photograph was worth more than a few thousand dollars that he would make in rent for just his business buildings. He could find even more revealing images if he performed a simple Google search, or he could go on a pornography site. But that felt wrong. He wasn't sure why, but he felt as if he knew this woman. She seemed important, the feeling he got when he looked at her felt familiar.
He flipped the paper, hoping to find some clue as to who the mysterious woman was. On the back, all it read was '1993.' He thought a moment, and realized with relief it was likely the woman's birth year. So while he was indeed a pervert, at least he wasn't a pedophile. He tucked the photograph away inside the envelope it came in, making sure it was face down. He set the envelope in the box, and then he locked the box. He picked it up and carried it up to his bedroom, placing it beneath his bed. He laughed aloud at himself. He was hiding explicit photographs under his bed like a fourteen year old boy with his first playboy. It was embarrassing, and he was grateful that no one would ever know.
He changed into his silk pajamas, brushing his teeth and using the restroom before climbing beneath his sheets. He felt more sexually sated than he had in years. It almost was enough to help him forget about how empty and cold his bed was without a warm body curled around his. He wasn't even sure where the yearning came from. It wasn’t as if any of the women from the unimpressive number he had been with had ever been wanted to cuddle anything other than his wallet. He sighed, the sadness sinking back in.
Sometime, in the darkness and privacy of his own room, he thought of Belle French. Not in a sexual or derogatory way. But just what it would be like to have the courage to ask her on a proper date, or the courage to press his lips to her own. To have something more than the simple lunches they shared each day. He rolled his eyes at himself, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. Sleep came quickly, and he sank into dreams he unfortunately would forget, though they were filled with blue eyes and black lace.