Because I had to take a make-up course the summer between my junior and senior years of college, I couldn’t find much in the way of a steady job for those few months. So I blanketed my parents’ neighborhood with flyers offering to do gardening or oddjobs and was pleased I found enough takers to earn a little walking-around money.
One of my customers was the Joneses [not their real name] – Thomas and Laura. They had a large house just two streets away and they hired me to cut their lawn, as well as do general gardening. The Joneses and my parents knew each other and were occasional guests in each other's homes, but I wouldn't describe them as close friends.
Mr. Jones was an older man, a wealthy and very prominent lawyer, active in a lot of cultural and charitable organizations. Mrs. Jones was his second or third wife, at least 25 or 30 years younger than he and maybe in her mid-30s, I’d guess. She didn’t work full-time, but was active in a lot of social organizations.
What she really was, was...a stunner, pure and simple. On more than one occasion, I overheard my parents refer to her as a “trophy wife.”
I got a call one day from Mr. Jones, asking me if I could do a special job for them the very next day. He said his wife had bought a lot of new flowers and plants and wanted to get them into the ground as soon as possible. It was a weekday and he’d be at work, he said, but his wife would be there to tell me what to do. Sure, I said.
Arriving there that day, I found trays upon trays of young flowers on the driveway. Mrs. Jones called out to me from her kitchen window and said she’d come out to show me where she wanted the flowers to go, after I’d finished cutting the lawn. It took me two hours to cut the grass, front and back, and because it was such a pleasantly warm morning, I stripped off my T-shirt and went about my work in just a pair of cargo-pants shorts and boots.
Throughout the morning, I caught fleeting glimpses of Mrs. Jones in different windows of the house, looking at me, but I didn’t think much about it; I figured she was just checking to see when I’d finished mowing so she could come out to direct the planting or maybe, just maybe, she liked the looks of my tight pectorals and arms, the results of several years of dedicated weight-lifting.
I was sweating freely and was very thirsty as I finished the backyard, so I turned on the garden hose and was both sipping a drink and wetting myself down when Mrs. Jones cried out from the kitchen window: “Oh, Robby, no! Let me bring you something better than that!” She soon came into the backyard with a big pitcher of iced tea and two glasses.
I was knocked out. Not so much by the iced tea – which was great, of course – but by what Mrs. Jones was wearing. Or should I say, what she
wasn’t
wearing. I’d seen her at parties at my parents’ home and she’d always been dressed like someone out of the pages of a fashion magazine.
On this particular morning, however, all she had on as far as I could tell was an over-sized T-shirt and flip-flops on her dainty feet.
The T-shirt came down to just below her hips and there was no sign of a bra underneath – no visible straps across her shoulders or across her back. In fact, her nipples stuck out noticeably and her tits swayed easily from side to side. It was pretty clear she was bra-less.
“Here,” she said, handing me a glass of iced tea, “and now let me show you where I want you to plant the flowers.” I was only too happy to walk behind her, because that gave me the opportunity to stare at her wonderful, wiggly ass, just barely covered by the T-shirt. I frankly wasn't paying close attention to what she was saying because all I could think about was -- is she wearing panties? And what would it be like to make it with her? I soon got answers to both questions.
She stopped abruptly alongside the house, saying, “Oh! Here’s where I’d like some marigolds to go,” and bent over to point out the exact spot. As she did so, her T-shirt rode up her backside and I caught a fleeting glimpse of two lovely pussy lips squeezed between the thighs of her slender, dancer-like legs.
It was only for a second and then she straightened up, her T-shirt came back down, and she continued moving along the path, sipping her iced tea and talking about where the flowers were to go, but it took my breath away. She wasn’t wearing panties! That one quick glimpse made my cock twitch and start to stiffen.
Mrs. Jones seemed oblivious to the fact that she’d just flashed me. I couldn’t tell if it was accidental or deliberate. A few feet further along, she again stopped short and, without turning to look at me, bent over to indicate where more plants were to go.
Again, her T-shirt came up over her buns and this time, she remained bent over for several long seconds, talking to me over her shoulder about her plans for that part of the garden and pointing to this and that plot of soil.
Standing behind her, I could only gawk at the sight of her gorgeous vulva, bordered by soft brown pubic hair, and my stiffening cock now became an aching hard-on. She seemed to be totally unaware she was showing herself to a horny 20-year-old boy or the effect her body show was having on him.
As we continued along the side of the house, her bend-overs became more frequent and prolonged. By now, I was aware her moves were not accidental but, being young and inexperienced, I wasn’t at all sure what to do about it, especially since she was a married woman who was also an acquaintance of my parents.
At the far end of the backyard, near the swimming pool, she said she wanted a special pattern of flowers and, turning to face me directly, squatted to show me exactly what she meant. She made no effort to tuck the front of her T-shirt between her legs; in fact, she spread her legs just enough so I could see her pussy quite clearly. And what a fantastic, erotic sight that was – I couldn’t take my eyes off her vagina!
“You OK, Robby?” she asked, catching me staring wide-eyed at that marvelous place between her legs. Embarrassed, I quickly looked away and croaked, “Oh, yeah, sure.”
