Things started out really well, but I soon found out being your own boss wasn't necessarily easier. You still had to service your customers when they demanded service. Some wanted their lawn cut every week. Others, only when the grass got high.
This brings me to Mrs. Adams. She had been my high school English teacher and I really didn't want to cut her grass, but she and my mother had been good friends for a long time, so I took her on as a client. She would call when the grass got really tall and hard, as she put it, and then she'd stand there and watch me as I cut her grass.
She wanted the work done just the way she wanted, with her walkway cleaned off. No matter how hard I tried, she always found something to come out and talk to me about. At first, I thought I was doing something wrong, but I came to realize she just wanted to talk—to ease her loneliness. Her husband had worked at the cement plant until he fell into one of the mixing vats three years ago this August. The damn thing chopped him up into little bits, and I figure he's all over the state in cement.
Mrs. Adams wasn't an unpleasant woman to look at and I liked the attention she gave me. She stood a little over five feet tall and maybe had ten pounds she didn't need, but she had the nicest breasts—not overly large, but they stood out and up with upturned nipples the color and shape of strawberries. I know this because she would come out to instruct me on cutting her grass and she wouldn't be wearing a bra. She wore these really sheer blouses, and left the top buttons undone down past her breasts. When she turned just right, I could see her nipples. At my age of raging hormones, my face turned red and hot and my blood rushed south. And dear God, did she have legs. They were golden brown and long, and she kept them free of hair and smooth.
Mrs. Adams knew the effect she had on me—she had to. She would find a reason to touch me, to turn me to face her. She always looked down, then up to my eyes and smiled. Of course, her attention caused even more blood to settle in the same extremity.
After I finished Mrs. Adams' grass, I always had to run home and spend thirty minutes in my room alone.
For a long time, I thought she wore something around her middle to make her waist appear smaller, but that wasn't the case. When she walked, nothing moved but the muscles involved. Unlike most women at the time, whose buttocks had to be held in with something, her ass did not look like a bowl of Jell-O when she moved. She claimed she did sit-ups every night—I can only imagine. All I know is her round backside stood up in the air, tight—real tight—and her perfect rear end wasn't the only thing tight about her. I was astonished at how some things on her body were so tight and others were so soft and loose.
By mid-afternoon in June, the weather gets really hot in my hometown. Rain comes and goes in an instant, a welcome relief from the heat. That summer—on June 5th, to be exact—I had cut the front yard and moved to the back, so I was already drenched with perspiration when the deluge began. Of course, the rain made my t-shirt and shorts cling like a second skin. Mrs. Adams stuck her head out the screen door on the back porch and said, "Want to come in out of the rain and have something cool to drink?"
"Sure," I said. How dumb does she think I am? Of course, I want something cool to drink. I stepped onto the back porch and hesitated.
"Well, don't just stand there. Come in the kitchen," Mrs. Adams said, holding out a glass of lemonade with lots of ice.
I took the glass, drank half right away, and stood staring at Mrs. Adams as she used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off her chest. Her unbuttoned top hung open, not just below her breasts, but all the way from top to bottom. She would push the handkerchief inside the blouse, first over one breast, then under, and just make small circles around her nipples. I could see how hard they were getting. In that moment, realized she was putting on a show. She pulled the top open a little more. I could now see her belly, well below her navel where I caught a glimpse of just a hint of dark, brownish–black hair. I don't think I had ever seen as much of a grown woman's body before. I had seen Becky, but not a grown woman. Mrs. Adams' abdomen, flat and tan, didn't fit her age. By that time, I could have hammered nails with my penis.
"Let's get your wet shirt off and you can sit under the fan to cool you down." Mrs. Adams stepped into me, lifting my shirt up and off. She didn't say anything, but she had to feel me stabbing her in her belly right below her navel. I sure could feel her right on the head of my dick. And, yes, her touch made me even harder.
"I don't see any fan," I said, knowing I sounded like an idiot.
Now she wasn't even trying to cover her breasts. Her dress had slithered halfway down her left arm when she pulled my shirt off. I looked at her and she merely smiled. I stood there for what seemed like a year before I got up enough nerve to reach up to her breast. She just stood a foot away, waiting. My hand shook like a vibrator, out of my control. Finally, I laid my hand over her left breast.
"No," she said, "like this." Mrs. Adams reached up with her hand and touched my chest, slowly, softly. I did exactly the same thing to her. "See, there's nothing to it. You just have to be slow and gentle, not rough and hard. Let's go lie under the fan." She locked the door, took me by the hand, and led me into her bedroom where the window fan ran at full speed.
* * * * *
"Take off those wet shorts, and I'll dry them," Mrs. Adams said. She reached down with both hands to push my shorts down. I instinctively grabbed them and pulled them up. She straightened and smiled at me.
"Oh, I see. Would you feel better if I take my clothes off first?" She pushed her dress off her shoulders and let it drop to her waist, giving me my first unhampered view of her astonishing breasts.
They did not stick straight out as I had imagined, but pointed just a little off to the sides. Each one had an almost perfect brown circle with a hard nipple right in the center, which pointed upward. I don't think I had ever seen anything so beautiful—until she let the dress fall to the floor. I had heard men say a woman should look like a Coca-Cola bottle. I didn't know what they meant until today. I looked at how her body curved into her waist, then out, becoming her buttocks. The way her legs tapered down to her delicate ankles. Her golden-brown body had three spots, the three most interesting places. I'm sure you understand when I say my penis stood erect, past hard and throbbing with pain. My cock jerked up and down as if it had a mind of its own—a new experience for me. I had seen naked women before—well, not really women, only Becky, who lives four houses down the street from me. For my sixteenth birthday, and a few times since, she let me play with her pussy as she jerked me off. But she had never let me get even close to putting my penis in her. Mrs. Adams was definitely not like Becky, who never had as much hair, even now. Mrs. Adams' hair looked like a pyramid turned upside down, and I imagined it felt like silk.
"Now, let me get those shorts off." Mrs. Adams stepped in front of me again and pushed my shorts down. This time I did not object. She pushed them to the floor and she followed them down, hitting her chin on my penis. "Wow! You're real hard. Does it hurt?"
"Yes," I said, standing there like an idiot, unmoving, barely breathing.
"My, you have such a hard, nice butt." She had both hands on my ass, squeezing like I had seen my mother handle dough. "You look like you're going to burst if I don't do something about this." Her mouth was inches from my penis. She ran her tongue out, leaned forward and ran her tongue all around my head, my little head. I just stood there, not really knowing what to do next. I most definitely did not want her to stop. Mrs. Adams slowly sucked my cock into her mouth, still running her long tongue around the sensitive knob. Her tongue felt rough, like my cat licking my arm, but so good—I could actually feel her sticking the tip in my opening. She lunged forward until her nose touched my pubes and I could feel the back of her throat. She rocked backward and forward, drawing me in and out, then she sucked me in as deep as she could. She moved her head sideways, as if saying no. For a second, I grinned—the motion looked funny to me. But my cock head hitting the back of her throat drew my attention. Moving her head like that caused my dick to move back and forth in her mouth. I tried to hold back but then she started rocking again. I felt the beginning of my orgasm shoot out and hit the back of her throat, then another load shot off, bigger than the first. My legs buckled and I dropped. From the floor, flat on my back, I looked up at Mrs. Adams and hoarsely whispered, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be, my darling boy. I haven't had the salty taste of semen in so long, and I love the taste." She leaned over and took my penis in her mouth, sucking me clean. "The first time you come is always quick, far too quick, but the next time will take longer. We just have to wait a little while. Let's get on the bed, lie there and we'll listen to the rain. Then I'll show you what you can do for me." |
