My other employers booked no daytime hours for me on Wednesdays so I could service my yardwork clientele. I mowed five different lawns all within a few blocks of each other. I started around nine in the morning and it usually took me about six hours or so. The Kaminski's yard was the last on the list; it's promise as well as the extra adrenalin it incited helped me push through the tedium and fatigue of it all.
I finished Mrs. Fulton's yard around two o'clock, crossed the street to the Kaminski's, and went around back. No Eleanor. Maybe she was inside admiring her big tits in the mirror, I thought. Like I wished I was doing. In the shed, the evidence of last week's load had evaporated. I propped open the shed door for more light, gassed up their shitty Sears Craftsman mower, and by the time I brought it clattering out onto the lawn, Mrs. Kaminski was standing at the top of the back porch steps.
She was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, even though the day was warm. They were tight, but not Sally Speaker tight. More enticingly, up top she had on a white button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows and the tails knotted up under breasts, showing off a nice expanse of flat, tanned belly. The top three buttons were open and the closed ones were strained from the pull of her braless breasts. It was a good look for her. Though I can't say that I'd seen a bad one yet.
The night before, I'd worked the closing shift at the A&P; on my way home, I stopped at the Sinclair gas station, gassed up my parent's car, and bought a couple condoms from the machine in the men's room. Now they were in the pocket of the painter's pants I was wearing. I had no intention of using them today. Or, I should say, I had no intention of making any kind of move today, if I ever would. But I didn't discount the possibility that she might. My imagination may have been pushing the boundaries of plausibility. There wasn't anything like good judgment taking place here. But it was better to be ready for something that had no chance of happening, then of something happening that I was in no way ready for.
She had a big Styrofoam cup in her hand, and as she came down the porch steps, big tits bouncing, I realized that it was for me.
"You look hot," she said, biting that lower lip.
Was that an opening? I ignored it.
"It's pretty humid today," I said.
"It's just ice water."
"That's perfect, thanks," I chugged down half of it and immediately felt like someone just clocked me in the forehead with a baseball bat.
"Oh, you're welcome," she hooked her thumbs in the front belt loops of her jeans. "Well, if you need anything else, just come find me."
I got to work. I'd considered a bunch of different scenarios with her, of how this might go, or at least come about. Maybe she would step into the shed, with feigned innocence, when I was putting things away at the end. There was really no place to fuck her in there, no bench or table, just some shovels and racks hanging on one wall, and an old bookshelf that held the Kaminski's old rusty paint can collection. It could start in there, however. I could get my hands and mouth on those tits and suck away. And maybe that would be all, the next step in the progression. She sees my cum from jerking off one week, the next she lets me suck her tits, but only that, because she thinks she can't go all the way with this. But all she thinks about afterwards, in the intervening week, is how she let this young boy suck her boobs, and she finds herself getting more and more agitated. Finds herself contemplating more.
But it can't
, she thinks,
it can't go beyond that.
Not realizing that it's already too late. It's a rabbit hole, after all, and the gravity of lust is bearing her down, down. She imagines him putting his hand between her legs.
Or maybe I reach out, put a hand on her breast, and she slaps me, tells her husband, and he runs me over with this shitty Impala the next day.
I finished the work and stowed the mower in the shed. I went to the same spot in the back, unzipped, and pulled out my already half-hard cock. I imagined kissing the smooth, exposed plane of Eleanor Kaminski's bare stomach. I thought about the inner curve of bare breast that I could peak through the gapping of those strained buttons on her white shirt. I thought about her on her knees on the dirt floor here in this shed, making soft little grunts of pleasure as her lips glided back and forth over my swollen cockhead, wanting nothing more than a lush load of warm teenage cum filling her mouth, like the horny housewives in Suzie Bowen's porn stories—with their pool cleaners and house painters and, yes, lawn mowing neighbor boys; "I can't believe this really happened to me..."—who talked about their insatiable need to drink down the potent offerings of creamy young seed, to feel the erect cocks pulsing in their mouths and spurting thick gouts of salty sperm down their throats.
Please,
they said.
I have to have it,
they said.
I want to taste it, I want to swallow your big, sweet load.
And just like the week before, I pumped my load against the shed wall.
I made myself decent quickly. I didn't want to be caught doing it, just to have done it and leave it there. I knew that once the sound of the mower running had stopped, she'd soon be out, and she was already halfway across the yard on her way to the shed when I stepped out and slammed the door behind me.
"Well, that was quick," she said. Was she talking about me jacking off? Was she on her way to try to catch me at it. I told myself she was.
"Was it?" I said. "I don't think it took much longer than usual."
Two could play at this game.
She extracted the folded up square of the ten-dollar bill from the little change pocket sewn in the top her jean pocket. I took it, and put it in my pocket with the condoms.
Even though I'd just gotten myself off, my spent cock still had a twitch in it. Her big tits beneath that knotted white shirt were calling me, plump and wanton sirens on the carnal shore, beckoning me to find harbor atop that big, soft body. I felt the urge to move in, to call her bluff now. If I hadn't just spent the last week in an intensive study sex course with Suzie Bowen, I wouldn't have felt any such thing, of course: just that old, persistent, unrequited lust that required a follow-up tug in the shower.
