I woke to a buxom blonde goddess looming over me. I was a typical 19-year-old male, it was the 80s, and there she was. Heather Thomas, above me in bed, both of us almost entirely undressed. Of course, the bed was the top bunk in my friend Pete's room and Heather was a poster he had so thoughtfully tacked to the ceiling above it. I lay there staring at that pink bikini, or more accurately, what I thought lay beneath those tiny, wet pieces of fabric. The enticing lines of her stomach, the curves of hip and breast, the come-hither smile. Come-hither, all right. Something was certainly stirring beneath the sheets. I listened for Pete's breathing but heard only silence. He was supposed to go with his dad on an errand this morning and was due back at lunchtime. I didn't have a watch on, so I wasn't even sure what time it was. I leaned over to look at the clock on the dresser below. 8:18. I also noted the bed below was disheveled and, more importantly, empty. I was alone at last with Heather. Well, alone with my hand, but it would have to do. As usual.
I slid my hand down over the material of my briefs and found that very familiar occurrence, a rock-hard penis. I involuntarily arched my back and moved my hips as my cock reacted to the warm touch of my hand. My fingers and palm curled around the shaft as well as they could through the thin cotton underwear as I stared up at Heather. Come hither. Don't worry, I thought, I probably will. I slipped my hand into my underwear and grabbed myself directly. Despite the intimate familiarity of the two appendages, hand and erection, the first touch of flesh on flesh was still a pleasurable shock. At 19, masturbation was certainly far from new for me, but in an unfamiliar bed it seemed especially exciting on this morning.
I slowly stroked myself and closed my eyes dreamily and tried to imagine what Heather, the real Heather, would look like without that bikini. The little beads of water on her tanned body, while fixed in place in the picture, were far from immobile in my mind. They slowly made their way down her body, they welled then dripped off the tendrils of her hair and fell onto her shoulders where they then followed each other in rivulets over her oh-so-sexy clavicles, along the curves of her perfect breasts, down her stomach... my hand was pumping steadily now. That bead of water, mixed with her sweat I imagined (it looked hot and steamy in that picture), had traveled over that line of muscle along her abdomen and was heading for uncharted territory.
Almost of its own accord, my left hand pulled my briefs down to my thighs while my right hand busily worked on my now raging erection. The sheets and comforter rose and fell with the rhythm. The sheets. Crap, I can't mess up the bed, I thought. Come hither, yes, but not all over the sheets, Heather. I stopped stroking and with my left hand pushed the sheet and comforter down around my hips, exposing my cock. That was a thrill in itself. I could see my cock and Heather Thomas at the same time if I didn't look quite directly at either and at that point in my life, unfortunately that was as close as I was getting to having a girl seeing me naked and aroused.
I resumed stroking, and with the added thrill of being exposed to the warm summer morning air blowing in lazily through the window, I was going to come hither. Heather. Oh god. I felt the familiar surge in my stomach, in my cock. My heart raced. My hand was slick and my cock was sliding in and out of my fingers. I concentrated on the shaft near the head. Oh god, that felt good. It always made me come. I opened my eyes and stared at the poster. I wanted to soak in every detail of her as I came. My eyes roamed all over her body. Oh god. Oh god, I was close to the point of no return. Imminently hither, and then suddenly flying up to the finish line, there was no stopping now. The warmth washed over me as the surge welled up in my cock, my legs shaking, I was suddenly awash in orgasm. I exploded over my stomach, up my chest. Cum. Heather... Oh god that feels good. Oh. God. Streams of cum spurted hotly onto my chest and stomach. Oh, god, I thought, and probably even whispered in that orgasmic delirium where you don't really care about anything except how good it feels.
Oh god.
I sensed movement near the bedroom door. I jerked my head to the side, and immediately noticed the door was cracked open, just a bit. It couldn't have been like that the whole time, could it? Then I locked eyes with Pete's mom. She was standing with a laundry basket full of linens balanced on her hip, looking at me bemusedly. What seemed like an eternity (although it was surely milliseconds) passed and her eyes then dropped to my body, my now quite messy body. She didn't look too shocked, in fact it seemed like she was about to smile and say something, but I quickly reached for the sheets and frantically tried to pull them over myself as I turned my hips and lewdly jutting erection away from her. This motion broke the moment and she pulled the door shut with an all too audible click.
Maybe she didn't see? Idiot, of course she saw. Shit! Pete's mom just caught me jerking off. No, she didn't just briefly catch me masturbating, she caught me in the middle of an extremely obvious and explosive orgasm. No, she couldn't have... Oh god, I thought, and not the good "Oh god" anymore. The cum was starting to drip down my chest in a slick trail of hotembarrassment. Its wetness on my hands and body was now like evidence of a crime, I had to get rid of it.
Should have thought of that before, dumbass. I leaned over looking for a box of tissues, anything. None in sight, which was a surprise since Pete had posters of scantily clad 80's pinups all over his room. Heather Thomas and Paulina Porizkova both seemed amused by my predicament. I thought about using my underwear, but I didn't have a change of clothes and in my panicked state didn't even think of going commando. The blood was roaring in my ears as I jumped as delicately as I could off the bed, trying to keep most of the cum on my body. Stooped in that goofy contorted pose familiar to most guys trying not to drip cum all over the place, I walked over to listen by the door to see if I could make it to the bathroom without being seen and heard Pete's mom making noise in the kitchen downstairs (a lot of noise, actually). I figured I could make it. I opened the door a crack more to make sure, and that's when I noticed the box of tissues at my feet.
My embarrassment reached surprising new heights as I realized that she had thoughtfully left the tissues for me to clean myself up.
Which I did, nervously. What the hell was I supposed to do now? She was downstairs in the kitchen, Pete wasn't due back for hours, and she was my ride if I wanted to go home now. My ride. Jeez. I had never really thought of her sexually beyond the usual 19-year-old male leering at anything vaguely sexual. In other words, I was a guy who liked girls, she was female. Older, but attractive. I didn't really have a MILF thing going, in fact since it was the 80s that term didn't even exist. But now I was having some interesting feelings as the embarrassment died down a bit. She had seen me entirely naked, hard, jerking off. She even acknowledged it by leaving me tissues to clean myself up. It was a little exciting, until I realized of course that I needed to actually see and talk to her again, very shortly. I thought about staying in the room until Pete got home with his dad from whatever they taking so damn long to do. Plus it was turning out to be a nice summer morning and spending it cooped up seemed like a waste, although keeling over and dying seemed like a good option. But now the 80s pinups plastered around the room that got me into this trouble in the first place were making me feel a little guilty again. I got dressed, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
I could smell breakfast coming from downstairs as I slunk slowly down the steps like a condemned criminal. It smelled delicious and I was starving, but all I could really think about was that I had no idea what to say to her. I stopped before entering the kitchen and almost turned around and bolted out the front door, but I steeled myself as best I could and turned the corner. Pete's mom had her back to me at the stove, but turned her head to me and gave me a little smile. She turned back without saying anything and for the first time I realized that maybe she was as unsure of what to do as I was. My mouth was dry, though it should have been watering with the smell of whatever she was cooking wafting through the room. Omelette? Sausage? Oh yeah, definitely sausage, probably telling me my sausage was fried at this point.
I started, "Mrs.---" but she cut me off immediately.
"Cynthia," she said. "You can call me Cynthia."
I had never called her by her first name before, so this was new. I didn't know what to say.
"Look, I'm just going to say it," she said. "I know you're probably really embarassed about what happened, but don't be. At all. I'm really sorry, I should have knocked but I thought you'd be asleep and I was going to make breakfast so I just opened the door... and, well, saw you. I'm really sorry." She slid over the plate of eggs she had been putting together and smiled, like it was a peace offering.
