When I turned eighteen, I was a typical lanky young man, in good health and sex hormones out of control.
I found a job as pool boy at an upscale condominium. My job was to keep the swimming pool clean, clean the filters check the chlorine, etc. I had to pick up around the pool empty beer bottles and cans, line up the chaise lounges neatly, that sort of thing. There was a lot of landscaping around the building and part of my job was cutting the grass, pulling weeds, trimming hedges and generally keeping the place looking neat and well cared for. Sometimes one of the condo owners needed a hand, like moving furniture around a room--something like that. They usually slipped me a tenspot as a "tip" for my trouble. In time, I was on a first name basis with nearly everyone living there.
I usually worked steadily every day, but there were quite a few days were I had caught up with the work and had nothing else to do for a while.
When there wasn't much to do, I usually hung out in the store room where the lawnmower, pool supplies and other things connected with my job. And when I hung out in the storeroom, my thoughts would turn to visions of carnal delight with Mrs. Margaret (call me Maggie) Thompson.
Mrs. Thompson was actually a widow, and, in my opinion, even if she was old, she was the hottest, best looking, sexiest, longest-legged, nice-est-titted, perfect-assed, best dressed woman in the condominium complex. Maybe even in the whole world. Of course, I was still a virgin and had no basis of comparison.
She had some men friends whom she dated, mostly old guys in their forties or fifties by the look of them. I wondered what she did on those dates. Sometimes when I was tending the pool in the morning, I'd see her return from her date of the night before. Her dark hair was mussed, clothes were wrinkled, lipstick smeared, sagging nylon stockings. She looked very tired--but happy. If she noticed me she would give me a slightly weaker version of her usually dazzling smile and say, "Hi, Steve."
Sometimes she brought a woman home with her in the afternoon. They were always younger--around my age, or a little older--and good looking. I know they stayed the night, because they usually left the next morning about the time I came to work.
Mrs. Thompson--I felt funny calling her Maggie--was one of those who periodically wanted to change the "look" of a room, even if all it meant was rehanging pictures in different parts of the room. She would give me a twenty dollar tip when I helped her, but I would have been happy even if she gave me nothing. Just being around her was like being in heaven. Sometimes when I helped around her apartment she wore nothing more than panties and bra. The first time I saw her like that, I almost came in my pants. If she ever noticed the bulge of my hard-on, she never let on.
She was friendly enough, too. Most times when I was working around the pool and she was catching some sun, or even if she was just walking by, she'd stop and chat for a few moments. Over a period of time, she learned from these little chats, that I was saving my money for college, could drive a stick-shift, liked chocolate ice cream, was the oldest of three boys, had no girlfriend, was a virgin, and a lot of other things that come out in conversation. She had let it slip that she was forty-six but her being old didn't matter to me. Especially when sometimes she looked at me in certain way. Appraising, maybe.
She had some kind of business, real estate, where she went most days. She always wore a woman's business suit and carried a slim briefcase. When I heard the "tock tock" of her high heels on the concrete walkway, my hormones raged and I had to make a quick trip to the storeroom to jerk off into the starchy-stiff hand towel I kept just for that purpose. Very often, I would shoot two loads into the towel before my hard-on went down and I could think clearly again.
One afternoon, I just finished putting away some things in the storeroom and was locking the door before I went home to my rented housetrailer, when I heard the familiar, "tock tock" of her high heels and turned to look at her. She was in her business woman's suit, coming home from work. She called out and waved me over, then disappeared into her apartment.
I went in through the open door and closed it behind me.
"In here, Steve," she called from her bedroom. Maybe she wanted me to turn her mattress again.
Mrs. Thompson was in her bedroom in the act of removing her business clothes while I stood there watching.
"Let me get out of these clothes, Steve. She had her jacket off and was undoing the buttons of her blouse. She tossed the blouse toward the jacket on the bed and removed her skirt and tossed that, too, onto the pile. Her brassiere had hooks in the front; after she took it off and tossed it at the pile, she massaged her breasts for a few seconds, sighing in relief.
