In the course of researching the history of my great grandfather, Lloyd Wallace, a pioneer photographer from the turn of the last century, I came upon the name of Alice Hyde. She was a renowned model, at least renowned in her day, and apparently, my great grandfather’s favorite subject behind the lens. I often wondered if their relationship went any further. In my possession were a few faded and torn photographs and part of his old journal, none of which suggested anything more than a professional arrangement.

I was on my way to meet a different Mrs. Hyde, the grand daughter of his prized model, though coincidently, they shared the same first name. We had spoken over the phone on several occasions and I imagined her to be a frail old woman in her late sixties.

After several hours of driving I finally pulled into the driveway of a rambling country house and found Mrs. Hyde living quite comfortably in a remote suburb outside of Boston. This morning she was in the garden, on her hands and knees apparently burying something, when I approached that late May afternoon.

‘‘Mrs. Hyde,” I said rather loudly and from some distance, hoping to allow a frail old women the time to compose herself and rise to meet me. But she waited for me to come closer, then took my hand and gently pulled herself up. She didn’t need it though—I was surprised by how spry she was. She smiled, adjusted her sun hat and shook my hand.

“Very nice to meet you Mr. Wallace.”

My expectations were instantly dashed when I faced the woman. She was not old or bent or feeble as I imagined her. Here was a fairly robust, handsome woman in her sixties with a lot of class. She stooped just a little and had kept some of her figure. She presented it well in a neatly tailored one piece khaki dress cut to the knee, all under a loose, half-buttoned cardigan.

Her face, framed by an ultra-wide brimmed straw hat, kept her features in a slight shadow which no doubt made her look younger than her years. She was not a craggy, wrinkled old hag; her skin was surprisingly smooth and firm.

“Shall we go to the terrace for some iced tea?” she offered and led me towards a patio set up with chairs, a table and umbrella.

“Lovely place you have here,” I said idly as we walked to the terrace.

She smiled a thank you and showed me to a comfortable seat, then poured two large glasses of iced tea. Curiously, she took a long drink from one of the glasses before handing me my own. “Excuse me if I start without you,” she said. “I’m very thirsty from working in the garden.”

She walked back to the serving table swaying slightly and refilled her glass. She stood for a moment braced against the table and I thought she was seized by an illness. I watched her shut her eyes tightly and pucker her lips. She squared her shoulders and straightened herself to her full height, removing any sign of stoop from her posture. Her figure filled her dress well, what could be seen of it under the cardigan. She walked slowly to a swinging loveseat positioned under the umbrella just opposite me.

She sat primly on the edge of the seat, fiddled with her lapel and sipped her drink. “As we talked about: my very own grandmother,” she began, “back in 1912, was your great grandfather’s very favorite model. In Paris, I believe. Those were simpler days,” she said almost wistfully. “And of course I have some photographs as you requested.” She laughed a little and took a sip from her iced tea as if to mask her expression. She put her glass down and slowly took off her sun hat.

Her face, in the shadow of the umbrella, looked much younger than I had first noticed. Her eyes still had a spark to them. Her hair was shockingly white and very full. She edged back more fully in the chair. For an old woman, she still had quite a figure, which showed when she pushed back in the chair. She pulled her cardigan closer.

I wondered if it was a miracle of lingerie or plastic surgery. “I’m excited to see them,” I said. “And the journals?” I asked.

“Oh, the journals. Yes, I think I’ve located most of them. You’ll have to come inside and help me.” She took a long drink and set down the glass.

I wasn’t sure if she meant to go inside immediately.

She shifted her weight, arranged a pillow behind her and sat in the loveseat with one leg up and one dangling on the ground. Her rather full chest poked out from the cardigan as she arched her back. The maneuver also hiked up her skirt a little, and surprisingly, her legs were quite shapely and smooth. I tried not to stare. She took another sip of iced tea, as did I.

“Normally, my daughter or my granddaughter would have retrieved them from the attic, but neither of them are here today,” she said and pushed the loveseat into a slight rock.

I wondered if they were as pretty as Mrs. Hyde was when she was younger. I looked at her closely and tried to determine her age more accurately. She must have had extensive plastic surgery. My reckoning put her close to seventy and yet as I looked at her in the loveseat, she seemed much younger. Her face had signs of age, but she had smooth, firm skin and excellent bone structure. She had no sagging jowls or bags under her eyes, her lips were quite full and even her neck was smooth.

She pushed again with her leg and set the seat rocking. She seemed quite supple and vigorous. She unbuttoned her cardigan and wriggled out while giving me furtive glances, and I stared at her body, which filled out her dress very well.

She rose slowly and walked back to the serving table for another glass of iced tea. I now noticed that her dress seemed to be well above her knees, as if she had grown an inch or two, and it looked a bit tighter. “I do have a powerful thirst today,” she said as she poured. “Would you like some more Mr. Wallace?”

I had much more than half a glass remaining and I shook my head no as I took another sip. I eyed her through the rim of my glass as she stood by the table. Her figure was actually quite voluptuous and I was peeved at myself for finding such an old woman so attractive, though there was no denying how well she filled up the back side of that form fitted dress. It was a miracle of girdles I decided. I watched her take another long sip.

She turned slightly to the side and raised one foot up against the bottom of the table. Her legs were nearly perfect and sculpted, and her dress, I could swear, was now at lower thigh height. From profile, her breasts were also quite miraculous, much firmer than I had first noticed; her waist was quite narrow and I decided that plastic surgery and a strict exercise regime had taken a good twenty years off her appearance. She drained her glass and poured another, then turned to face me. My jaw must have dropped and I stared at the woman before me.

She stood straight and tall in the full sun. Her figure filled her dress more than perfectly, that is to say the dress was at least one size too small. Her face was smooth and the bright sun seemed to wash away all signs of age. She seemed for a moment like a well-kept woman in her mid-forties. She put her glass down on the table and said, “Shall we go inside Mr. Wallace?”

She turned and I followed her from a few feet behind, watching her walk with a sensual confidence, her hips swaying. It was my imagination, I’m sure, but it seemed as if her dress was even a bit shorter and almost too tight now. At the door she waited for me. I fumbled with handle and opened it. She moved very close to me and I noticed her marvelous scent. I looked into her pretty eyes and then down at her dress when she arched her back. It seemed to make her breasts swell. There was some cleavage visible though her neckline. She leaned hard against me as she entered the narrow doorway. I felt her breasts push firmly against me; hard nipples brushed against my chest and I felt my heart race.

The house was very dark, especially in contrast to the bright May morning. I followed her up several flights of stairs, watching her backside and marveling. Her dress seemed a bit shorter with every few steps, and scandalously tight. Once she mis-stepped and fell gently into my arms. I felt no girdle, just smooth tight muscle and flesh. I felt her in my arms and wanted her.

She smiled and laughed coyly, then took my hand and put it against her breast. I could feel it expanding, I thought, growing larger and firmer in my hand. She pulled away and scurried up the remaining steps. At the top of the stairs on a long landing she stopped and stood leaning against the wall. She was breathing very hard and fast. I came closer.

“Are you all right?” I asked and looked into her face. This was not the same woman I had met outside. She was at least thirty or forty years younger now.

She nodded yes and put her full weight against the wall. She closed her eyes and puckered her lips. She reached up and loosened her hair, letting it fall with a toss of her head; it fell thick and soft around her shoulders, and was not only white, but streaked with blonde.

I was not at all sure what I was seeing and yet, in front of my eyes she began to transform. Her breasts swelled up against the fabric of her dress, firm and upright, pushing against the seams. Cleavage pushed out from the front of her too-tight dress. She was breathing rhythmically and seemed to be growing taller.

Her face was changing too, the few remaining wrinkles were disappearing quickly, filling in from underneath. Her cheekbones rose and protruded elegantly. Her jaw and chin grew more defined. Her eyes got wider, larger, and the top corners slanted up and back. Her eyelashes were certainly thicker and longer. Her nose got slightly smaller and her nostrils flared wide. Her lips began to swell, red, swollen, moist and pouty, they grew to nearly twice their previous size.

She was breathing hard. Her hips widened severely pushing against the dress, straining the seams, and she was growing taller still, some four or five inches from when we first met. Her legs grew longer, her buttocks firmer, rounder and higher. Her dress was now up around her upper thighs.

She opened her mouth in a kind of a silent gasp and began to caress her own transforming body, pushing between her legs and up across her waist and hips, and hard against her breasts. Up to her shoulders and long smooth neck and across her transformed face. She hiked up her dress and was on me, straddling me, her arms around my neck. Her heaving breasts pushing hard against my chest. I entered her, hot and moist. My lips met hers, swollen red and wet. She pulled me down to the floor. She arched her back and neck and then pulled me into her. She was a fantasy, a goddess come to life.

She was a seventy year old woman, a voice screamed inside of me.