I'd studied the way the gardeners eyed up my mother and it intrigued me to no end. They flirted with her and paid her compliments that even I could sense a double meaning in. She pretending to disapprove but I could tell the attention thrilled her. Every woman wants to feel desired. She was just getting back into dating, five years after my father had died, and was starting to really enjoy herself. She went out several nights a week and stayed out late leaving me to myself and my budding sexuality.
When she was gone I liked to study the one sexy magazine I had, that I'd stolen with a girlfriend from her older brother's stash. I'd stare at the pictures and read the words and entertain vague and uncertain fantasies of seduction and sex.
When the gardeners were redoing the back garden I watched them work, allowing feelings to stir inside me. These were new explorations for me, thoughts of touching and being touched, and I was thrilled with the way I could sit still without moving and feel my nipples growing hard and the lips of my pussy beginning to swell. I loved the rush of desire but it confused me too.
The men were all tan and lean and spoke a rapid-fire Italian as they worked. For the most part they ignored me so I was able to watch from the side fence, enjoying the sight of the sun on their shiny brown hair, and the easy way they worked with their hands. I wondered about their muscular chests, whether they were hairy the way men in the magazine were.
I sat and let my mind wander, undressing the men in my mind, trying to imagine what their cocks might look like, how dark or light their skin would be next to mine, and as the image of a brown, work-worn hand creeping up and up my skirt made me almost gasp, I was shaken from my dreamy state by the voice of my next-door neighbor.
He was a very kind, older man who'd done a lot for my mother and I since my dad died. He was a widower himself and knew something of the difficulties of continuing after the death of a loved one. He hadn't spoken that directly, but I knew that was why he'd taken to bringing us little offerings of baked bread and home-grown vegetables and inviting us to dinner once in a while.
Just now he was looking at me with concern, commenting on my flushed face and somewhat labored breathing. I was clearly startled and confused and he suggested I come out of the heat and have a glass of water. I followed him through the gate between our yards and into the coolness of his house, still a bit dazed. He poured some chilled water over ice and handed it to me, smiling kindly.
The air conditioning sent a shiver through my body and I felt my already-hard nipples contract even more. My head felt fuzzy and my arms felt weak as I reached for the glass and stammered a 'thank you' just before I drained the glass in three gigantic gulps. He smiled again, slightly puzzled, and took it from my hand, turning to the sink to refill it.
I watched him through my arousal, in a way I'd never watched him before, and found his motions so enticing, so mysteriously potent. I watched him pour the water over the ice in my glass and realised that most of the feelings I was having were rooted between my legs, that my pussy felt wet, that an insistent pulse throbbed and intensified when he turned and met my eyes.
I must have looked as dazed as I felt because his face became all concern and then his eyes slid down to where my breathing made my chest rose and fell and my nipples pressed against the fabric of my shirt. The concern in his eyes slowly faded as recognition of my arousal set in.
He held the glass in his hand, halfway between our bodies but I couldn't move to take it. I just stood, knowing his eyes were on my body, knowing the weakness in my knees was my own unexplored desire. Knowing he was watching me in this state, knowing he was only inches away but entirely off-limits.
He started to open his mouth to speak but closed it again and just stood there staring at me, or more precisely, at my breasts and protruding nipples, the glass of ice water still halfway between us in his hand.
Something was happening and it was happening to both of us. Right here in his kitchen on a nice suburban street, thoughts were rushing through both of our minds that would have made us blush to speak out loud.
I wanted him to do something rash, to grab me and take me, though I had no real experience with sex so I couldn't imagine the details entirely. My heart began to hammer and I felt a blush creep up my face as I spat out a 'thank you i have to go' and left the door wide open as I rushed back to my house next door.
I hid out in my room and touched myself in every way I knew, orgasming again and again with vague images of his hands on my body, his mouth kissing mine. For two days I felt sick to my stomach with sexual longing and replayed in my head, in as many ways as I could imagine, that afternoon in his kitchen, exploring my desire in an feverish way.
I stayed away from him, barely leaving the house for those days, completely terrified of what he must think of me, until I couldn't hide out any longer. My mother had made a peach cobbler for him and she wanted me to deliver it right away.
"He's always been so helpful and kind, it's about time we repaid him." she explained. She wasn't particularly domestic, so this was a big accomplishment for her to have baked a whole cobbler from scratch. She made it pretty clear how important it was to her that he have it but that she was too shy to deliver it herself, lest he get the wrong idea.
