Summertime Work (And Play)byonce upon a time©
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.”
My strangled voice and crimson face immediately told her I was lying. She didn’t do or say anything, but simply and coolly shifted her green-eyes from my eyes to my hard-on and back again.
“Really?” she asked, with a very skeptical tone to her voice. All I could do was nod as I desperately tried to hide my hard-on. She stood up, looked at me, stared at my hard-on for several seconds and then leisurely pulled her T-shirt up and over her head, tossing it aside. She was now stark naked and clearly was inviting me to stare at her.
And boy did I stare – she had small, but firm and beautifully proportioned tits, a flat tummy with just the smallest roll below her navel, rounded hips and a delta of Venus with light-brown pubic hair that looked as soft as cashmere.
“Well,” she said after many long seconds, “it’s pretty warm today. I think I’ll take a little dip. Why don’t you join me? You look a little hot.” With that, she kicked off her flip-flops and dived into the pool. I can still see in my mind’s eye, years later, her beautiful naked body and fabulous ass plunging into the water like an erotic arrow.
She surfaced in the middle of the pool and, treading water, urged me to come in. “Er, ah,” I stammered, “I don’t have my trunks with me.”
“You don’t need ‘em,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “I’m bare-ass and you can be too. C’mon, join me. C’mon.”
I quickly pulled down my shorts and jockeys, turning to one side so she wouldn’t see my rigid cock, yanked off my boots and socks and jumped in. When I surfaced, she swam over to me, smiling.
“Hmmm,” she said, treading water while reaching under the water to grab my very erect cock with one hand, “you’ve got a very nice hard-on. Why hide it? Didn't you know I was trying to get you hard after watching you cutting the grass this morning? You’ve got a nice body. A young man with a nice body and a tight little butt turns me on.”
“You mean,” I said, still sort of choking on my words, “you were bending over like that deliberately? You wanted me to see your…your…”
“My pussy? Of course,” she replied with a devilish little smile. “And you liked what you saw, didn’t you? I could tell.” She wagged my steely cock. “I can still tell.” I was so confused and nervous I could only nod my head stupidly.
Gripping my cock in one hand, she now began a one-arm sidestroke to lead me to the shallow end of the pool, where we got out. She led me, still holding my hard-on, into the cabana where there was a set of cushioned wicker chairs and lounges and stacks of thick cotton towels.
Watching her walk was every bit as arousing as seeing her pussy: Her ass was perfectly round, just like a cartoon Valentine’s heart, and it wiggled so delightfully up and down.
She handed me a towel and told me to dry her off, turning her back to me. “Slowly,” she said, as I gave her back a fast swipe so I could get at her front.
Anxious as I was to get on with it -- and by now I realized something good was going to happen -- I was smart enough not to rush things. I slowly toweled her back, starting at the nape of her neck, down her shoulders, down her back, down the small of her back until I got to her ass.
I passed over her cheeks and went down to her feet, working my way up her ankles, calves, knees and thighs until I was again at those marvelous, voluptuous moons. I patted each one with the towel and then, as she shifted her weight and spread her legs, brought my toweled hand up into her fork. She took in her breath sharply and let out a long, long sigh.
“Now my front,” she said, turning around. Again, I started with her neck and shoulders, then her chest – but not her tits, not yet – before going on to her midsection and legs. Only when I’d dried everything else did I focus on her arousal areas.
I gently ran the towel across her tits, but I didn’t just dry them; I wrapped each in a fold of the towel, caressing them, fondling them, playing with them, rubbing her nipples with the thick cotton material. She simply stood there, her eyes closed, breathing in sharply and letting out ragged sighs.
When she placed both of her hands on my head, I know it was time for her pussy. I knelt in front of her, only inches from her vagina, and patted the towel all around her “V.” I dried her pussy and by now it was time to get rid of the towel: I dropped it and began to explore her sex with my fingertips.
Her pubic hair was really cashmere-soft. Her labia were slightly swollen (as they should be, I later learned, when a woman is aroused) and I gently traced each one with my index finger. I eased that finger inside her. She was warm, noticeably warm, and wet, and though inexperienced, I knew that moisture wasn’t from the swimming pool, but from her. I pressed my face against her pussy and softly extended my tongue to lick her. Her smell and taste were intoxicating. Again, she inhaled with a hiss and said, “wait; wait.”
She told me to stand so she could dry me off – although I was pretty much dry by then. She didn’t waste any time on my chest or back, but went right to my cock and balls. And as I’d done to her tits and pussy, she didn’t so much wipe up any water as she used the towel to play with my equipment.
She knelt and while staring intently at my hard-on, fed it slowly into her mouth, making a low “mmmmmm” hum as she did so. I felt a shock as if my sex had just been wired up to an electrical battery.
Perhaps realizing just how young and excited I was, Mrs. Jones sucked me only briefly before sitting on a chaise lounge and pulling me down alongside her.
She was calling the shots. We kissed and kissed, her hand running ever so lightly up and down my cock, before she gently pushed my head down to her tits. “Suck them,” she said, smiling, and I gladly followed her instructions: “Run your tongue over them slowly ….yes, just like that…now suck on them.”
I started to reach for her pussy but she grabbed my wrist and said: “Wait a little. This is so nice. I want to enjoy this for a while.” And so I sucked and nibbled on her nipples. “Take one between your teeth,” she said softly, her head thrown back, her eyes closed. “But don’t bite…just hold it between your teeth and play with it with the tip of your tongue….oh, yes, just like that….oh, god, that’s so nice.” She continued running her hand up and down my cock and balls.
Now sighing deeply, she lay back on the lounge, pulled her heels up against her ass, let her knees drop apart and spread her legs wide. "Oh man!" I thought, looking at this lovely, sexy woman offering herself to me, "this is great! It's going to happen! I'm going to fuck this woman!"
But not quite yet. Her hands guided my head – my mouth, really – to her sweet, sweet spot and told me just what she wanted: “Lick me up and down, up and down.” As I did so, she rubbed her pubic bone with her hand and her sighs became more frequent and deeper.
Then her hand slipped down to spread her vulva, revealing her bright pink opening and clit. “Kiss me there, Robby,” she said, “kiss me there….oh, yes, yes. Now suck my clit, gently…gently…ohmigod…put your fingers inside me…ohgod, ohhhhh.”
Sucking her clit and slipping my fingers deep inside her wet, warm silkiness was the most wonderful sensation I’d ever known – I can still recall it even today. I was in heaven.
But I was also getting more and more excited and I realized I wouldn’t be able to hold back for much longer. “I think I’m going to come, Laura,” I said, calling her by her first name. She understood.
“Okay,” she responded, tugging at me to move on top of her. “I guess you haven’t done this too many times, have you?” she asked, as she took my cock in one hand and guided it to her pussy. She rubbed the tip up and down her lips a few times and then slid it deftly inside her.
Again, she gasped – as did I. “It’s okay if you come quickly,” she whispered in my ear, wrapping her arms around my neck and her legs around my hips, “just don’t stop humping. Keep it going as long as you can.”
I did the best I could, but the thought I was now inside a gorgeous married woman who had deliberately set out to seduce me -- who wanted me to fuck her - was as overwhelming as the sensation of my cock sliding in and out of her wet, warm pussy. I simply couldn’t hold it any longer. I let out a series of “oh-oh-oh-ohs!” and came after not very many strokes. The sensation of sperm jetting from the tip of my cock to somewhere deep inside her was absolutely electrifying.
Still, I kept thrusting into her vigorously and before long, she started to let out a long, high-pitched wail and dug her fingers into my ass to hold me tightly inside her. She came, in a long, drawn-out orgasm, her eyes closed, her face contorted, crying “yes-yes-yes!”
It took her a while to come down, little by little, from that peak (during which time my cock softened just enough to slip out of her vaginal grasp) but when she did, she smiled and kissed me, saying “oh god, that was great, Robby, great!” She was silent for a moment as her hand searched for, found, and then cupped my balls, squeezing them gently. “I can show you how to do it even better – if you want to learn, that is.”
Did I ever. For the rest of the summer, I fucked Mrs. Jones every other day or so – at least once, but usually two or three times so she could get it doggy-style and on-top, her favorite positions.
Sometimes, if she had some event to go to or if her husband was home, it was just a quickie. She seemed to like living dangerously.
One day, Mr. Jones was in his study, talking on the phone to someone, and we were in the kitchen, just two rooms away. Whispering he was likely to be on the call for at least 30 minutes more, Laura pulled my cock out of my jeans, quickly sucked me into a raging hard-on, hiked up her skirt, pulled her panties to one side and, bending over the kitchen table, stuffed it inside her like there was a fire to be put out.
I fucked her fast and furious and we both came, stifling our cries and managing to re-arrange our clothes only a minute before he wandered into the kitchen. He had to have seen we were both flushed and a little breathless, but said nothing.
I often wondered, years later, if he knew or cared that I’d been fucking his wife – not only that day, but throughout the summer. He never let on. I asked Laura once if she was worried about her husband discovering that we were fucking, but she put a finger on my lips and said: "Don't worry about it."
One memorable weekend, when her husband was away on a business trip and my parents were out of town, I spent the weekend with Laura in her house. Having that much uninterrupted time together for sex, we were like two starving people set loose in a supermarket: I arrived at the Joneses home around 9 a.m. and by mid-Saturday afternoon, we had fucked three times and mouth-fucked each other twice.
We went at each other on the guest room bed, on the kitchen table, on a kitchen chair, on the rug in the den, in the shower, on the billiard table in the basement, in the cabana, in the jacuzzi and even, late Saturday night, under a full moon, on the backyard lawn. I gave up trying to keep track of how many times we fucked, I ate her or she sucked me – it was all sex, all the time, for 48 hours.
And we were both still going strong near the end of the weekend; in fact, I shot my last wad up her sweet pussy just an hour before her husband was due home Sunday evening and she was just as hot and eager to fuck then as she had been at the start.
With Laura Jones’s coaching, I learned a lot about sex that summer – about the fine art of eating pussy, of arousing a woman to a fever pitch, of controlling my own urge to come, of satisfying a woman so that she’d always welcome me back to her bed. What invaluable lessons. What a teacher.