What Do You Need, Mrs. Mayfield?bySomeOneNew©
She noticed him now that he was a young man, and after a year of college and almost nineteen, a sleek and muscular one at that. She began following more than just his performance in swim meets at the club. Observed giggling girls and more composed young women, some married as she was and some with children, both older and younger, follow him with their eyes secreted behind glossy magazines and then slide into the pool to cool off after their thoughts turned as humid as the summer day. Watched him with his friends play volleyball and basketball on humid afternoons, lithe and muscled male bodies slick with perspiration engaged in ritual combat, before they too dove into the cool relief of the pool.
Last year she had caught a few of them celebrating graduation late one night by downing a case of beer next to the brook between their houses, and rather than tell their parents she merely confiscated the contraband, this being a first offense. He politely thanked her and promised never to get caught doing that again; never to get caught, mind you. She even watched him through the screen of her sun-porch as he and his prom date stole a kiss, graduating seniors both, he in perhaps his first tuxedo and she a lovely girl in a low cut, powder blue gown, both of whom exploded anxiously and still like teens from the rear of their white limousine for obligatory pictures.
Growing up he had mowed their lawn yearly and cleared their rain spouts when they clogged. Once in his senior year he even saved her from an errant mouse when her husband was in Taiwan on one of many business trips, all friendly gestures from a neighbor who employed gardeners and a day-maid and really didn't need the lad's assistance, but who understood how to maintain the social bonds of neighborhood, theirs being one of opulence built for the grandchildren of America's nineteenth-century robber barons. But the ancestors of men who had made Ford and Chevrolet household words now drove Mercedes and Jaguars in what had become an exclusive, gated community.
As planned he had gone away to college and on a full swimming scholarship. And on his return, that summer at the club where he worked as a lifeguard and the entire neighborhood gathered, just two weeks after he finished his freshman year, she finally noticed her neighbor had, well, developed. Developed nicely. Sitting by the pool, she overheard fragments of a surprisingly frank conversation between three bikini-clad young women also home from college, sitting behind her on three colorful beach towels, their voices they mistakenly assumed lost in the din of the mid-afternoon crowd. They dressed to see and be seen in bright colors, in daring tops that afforded little coverage for their tanned breasts, and skimpy bottoms that barely contained their tight and perfectly curved derrieres in diminutive and insecure triangles, and not to dive and swim, for their bikinis were as insubstantial as they were revealing.
"I'm telling you, watch when he gets out of the pool. Theresa said," and here the redhead with excessive eyeliner paused, either for effect or to make sure she wasn't being overheard, "he's like, lucky he can walk when he's got a boner. He wouldn't even, fit, so she used her hands 'cause they were in a hurry."
"He didn't fit?"
"Fit where" one giggled as she tapped her nails on her soda can, pushing the conversation in an even edgier direction.
"Duh. Anyway, that's what she said."
The girls giggled at the silly description of his inability to walk, and one pretended to be so amused that she spit out her soda at this tidbit of information.
"Well, Theresa would know" a leggy blond offered after a brief silence. "She could line up the guys in our class and name half of them just from the waist down. Knowing her she, like, got more than sticky hands. And I can't believe he didn't fit her somewhere; I mean, she practiced on everyone."
Again they laughed at poor Theresa's expense, a young woman whom they believed had her fill of the senior class in more ways than one.
"Where is she now, by the way" the third blond asked.
"Northwestern, pre-med." A longer pause, "she must have sucked out some brain cells from some of them."
"Oh Camille, that's so gross."
"Yea, like you never" the redhead said, and they all chuckled at their experience and maturity.
"Not that many" she responded and laughed. "And not one that ginormous, gaaak" she finished with a mock gagging sound.
"Anyway, if he dives in after his turn at the high-dive, watch when he gets out and he's still wet. I'd love to see him again in that blue nut-sack he wore on a dare at Erin's party. Mmmm, yummy. He, like, got embarrassed and changed into shorts in about five minutes. But you still can see it in those baggies he's wearing now."
"Cute butt too. Very easy on the eyes. He's standing up" one finished with a sense of urgency, yet tried to remain cool as they rose and headed in his direction.
Now she wanted to see too, her 6'2" eighteen year old neighbor with supple muscles layered over a lean swimmer's frame. She didn't remember ever thinking of him in that way until he was about to leave for college, but boys do become men, and men, she mused, have their uses. She strolled to the snack bar for a diet soda and slowly returned to her chair by way of a complete circuit of the lap pool where he was working that day, slowing to greet briefly other friends of leisure.
Joey, familiarly shortened from the solidly Catholic Joseph, was in the lifeguard's chair across from her when the PA system announced the end of adult swim as kids of all ages prepared to dive into the pool in a pent-up frenzy of splashing. Constance watched him talk with his replacement, hanging on to the left side of the chair, and rather than climb down to the deck he dove into the deep blue-green water of the dive well and swam on his back across the pool to where she stood chatting with a neighbor.
Joey climbed the ladder from the pool as water cascaded from his limbs in sheets. He unselfconsciously shook his head like a dog, the water flying everywhere from his short, curling locks, light brunette with the ends bleaching in the sun. His skin was turning a fine shade of toast too she observed when her approving eyes descended to his blue swim shorts as he toweled white nose-coat from his face. Her heart might have skipped a beat at the outline of what the girls had been discussing, and her eyes in a flash returned to his face, a sudden tickling sensation palpable in the depths of her abdomen. He was endowed as one girl had described him, his wet suit briefly outlining a long, thick, rooted organ dangling with dead weight down a leg and aimed at his knee and with an impressive head it seemed. Thick and long, and this after climbing out of the shock of cool water as well she thought.
She coyly bit the inside front of her cheek as the buzz of the crowd around her disturbed her reverie.
"Hi Joey" she said after she swallowed to clear her throat.
"Hi Mrs. Mayfield. Hi Mrs. Taylor. What's up" he queried sweetly as his green eyes almost imperceptibly surveyed both of the women's bodies, but quickly returned to her face. Is he checking us out, she wondered, barely catching his eyes in the glare.
"I'm fine; isn't it gorgeous today? I won't keep you, but I did want to ask you, is this the only thing you do in the summer, or do you have time for other odd jobs?"
"The more money I make this summer, the better I eat in the fall" he laughed as he tapped water from his right ear. "What do you need, Mrs. Mayfield?"
What do I need she thought as she definitely caught him checking her out again, but now just her, and with his same 'aw shucks,' boy next door charm, a quick glance at her boobs and back up to her eyes. His reaction to her, however small, was a rush that made her nipples harden as she surveyed his wiry muscles in his arms and chest. What an interesting contrast they would make, their limbs intertwined in a frenzy of excitement, she thought to herself.
She was forty four and childless, a lawyer who never had to practice law thanks to a well-chosen husband who made a mint on corporate tax law by the time they were thirty-five and then slid right into upper management after only ten years. Some people pick stocks; she picked a winner on her first try. So she worked out weekly with a personal trainer who kept her petite body in shape for James, to keep his eye from wandering to any one of a number of secretaries or colleagues she encountered at parties would gladly step over her cold body after they pulled the rock from her finger to become the second Mrs. James Mayfield.
Her two affairs well over a decade before were early in her marriage; now she didn't cross the street unless it benefited her. She imagined that he probably had indulged too. But they had settled into a routine and a lifestyle. Neither had the energy nor the inclination to verify that the grass wasn't greener elsewhere.
Or maybe he was screwing one of them now she sometimes thought on his long trips. But she was too plugged into his assets for him to cut her out with a divorce; she would never have to work no matter what either of them did or didn't do. To ensure that his eye didn't wander permanently though, she sated him and kept herself mildly amused with an armoire of lingerie, silk restraints, a toy or two for when he was away (though she considered herself a finger girl at heart), and a wicked imagination for all occasions—her best tool, all to highlight her trim body and keep James interested, as he was the primary recipient of her debauched inclinations.
Eventually they will be younger, she frankly told her best friend over a few glasses of wine one sunny afternoon, but she could suck the chrome off of the bumpers of their his-and-hers SL600s if she needed to, and did a lot more when the spirit moved her. She pulled all of her 105 pounds she figured, several pounds of which was a symmetrically perfect 33B boob-job from the best plastic surgeon in the city and a preemptory butt tuck to ward off the ravages of time before it struck her admittedly favorite asset. James had wanted her to move up to a C or a D, but she didn't want them 'hanging around her knees' when she was seventy, so his dreams of tit-fucking perhaps he negotiated with a stacked secretary. Frankly, she could care less at this point in her life.
"I need a room painted. You up to it for 20 bucks an hour" she asked with an agreeable smile. "I'll even throw in lunches and whatever else you need" she offered pleasantly, tingling in anticipation behind a cool façade, her manicured fingers laced and dangling at her crotch with soda in hand, ready to tear the material from her pussy and plunge into her delicate folds.
"When can I start" he responded with an exuberant smile. They agreed he would work around his swim training and hours at the pool. Tuesday he was free to paint all day, or so he thought.
He came in old jeans and a worn blue tee shirt, his pants almost in defiance of the weather, and worked up a sweat in the hot room without benefit of air conditioning in light of the project. He began by flaking off the chipped paint in the spare bedroom in the front of the house, a large room with original mahogany molding and a twelve foot tray ceiling. She spent the morning at the club and returned around noon to make sure that Gloria had prepared his lunch and, just as importantly, had left for the day. Moist beyond mere perspiration, she spent her morning in drowsy fantasy, imagining how her afternoon might unfold. Her dampness mingled with sweat and coconut scented oil between thighs she squeezed together in anticipation, accompanied by dips in the pool to cool her fever and hide the moist stain that recurrently formed in the crotch of her one-piece, calling to her nimble fingers for release.
She watched him through the doorway before she announced herself. His jeans were unbelted and hung crooked and low on lean hips without an inch of fat. His shirt was off and sweat had channeled around his muscles and down his back into the crack of his ass that almost peeked above the low-slung pants, the dampness from his exertions staining the material adjacent the seam. The denim she observed hugged a fine ass in the folds of his jeans as she imagined in action for the hundredth time that morning those hips and thighs wedged between her own delicate legs, held spread-eagle to give the lad access to enthusiastically penetrate her pink flower, pounding her ass into the mattress as she panted and moaned for more. He was covered with plaster dust from the walls of the seventy-year old Four Square house. Paint chips stuck to his shoulders and flecks dotted his hair and clung in tiny pieces to the bulging muscles of his arms and upper back. The room smelled of his exertion and the faintest hint of cologne. She dipped into the cups of her top and stroked her nipples to attention—sending a shiver the length of her frame--before she announced herself. She wore an unlined suit with material so form-fitting that it bore the subtle imprint of her nipples even when soft, but in this instance delineated her erect nipples so perfectly that she might as well have been topless.
"How are we doing" she asked, casually breezing into the room as if she had not been drinking in his body for a moment or two, her last thought dwelling on the imagined taste of his sweat as she licked her way up the insides of his thighs ahead of pushing her face into his balls on the way to engulfing the tip of his manhood with her full red lips. Her green one-piece had high-cut thighs and a plunging neckline with a gauzy wrap around her waist, and she was able to feel as she walked slick lubrication on her lips as her butt rotated in a slow, seductive, almost hypnotic syncopation.
"Great. Hungry too" he smiled as he turned and dropped his scraper, seeing her and his lunch in the same moment and exclaiming "wow," leaving her unsure of whether he more approved of his lunch or her. Perhaps she could be his lunch she mused to herself. He left the room to wash his hands and quickly returned, ravenously diving into his food as they made small talk, both sitting on bent metal folding chairs she had brought virtually knee to knee in the center of the room.
He found her attractive he decided, her thick shoulder-length brunette hair, and olive tan, courtesy of genes passed from her Greek ancestors. She looked as good as most of the young women at the pool he realized as he appraised her next to him. He noticed also that her toes and nails were painted to match, and that she wore a toe-ring, an affectation of the young that made her feet feel sexy.
She loved men's feet as well and how they looked in sandals; to her there was something erotic in large and powerful men's feet, and his were attached to exceptionally muscled legs and fit into an old pair of Birkenstocks. One affair of hers from years before, a bisexual she met through volunteering with a local theater group, would use his oversized great toe to bring her to orgasm, actually slipping the tip of his foot into her wet warmth, and the toe next into her asshole, wiggling them to bring her to a gushing finale that trickled down his foot to his ankle. He finished by cumming between her toes, the warm spunk she played in and rubbed around with her fingers like high-priced moisturizer. One of the sexiest things she had ever done was to rub their fluids together, hers and his, as afterward they intertwined their toes. He then licked her feet clean so delicately and expertly that she came as he attended to the crevasses between her toes, her one hand rubbing her clit nearly raw as she watched him service her like a sex slave.
"My God, you look hot in those jeans" she said.
"Pardon" he said, imagining that he had been hit on by his gorgeous neighbor but trying to hide his boyish insecurity at such a possibility.
"The room is hot Joey; you should have worn shorts" she explained with a devilish smile and a raised eyebrow that acknowledged the possibility of a double entendre.
"Oh, yea, I should have. You're right" he said as he voraciously inhaled lunch.
"Why don't you take a break, go home and put on some shorts."
"That's a good idea Mrs. Mayfield; do you mind?"
"First of all, it's Constance and Connie to, well, anyway; and second, would I have suggested it had I minded?"
"Right Mrs." he said sheepishly, ". . . Con. . . , I mean, Constance."
"Now you got it" she smiled warmly. "Bring your suit and you can shower off and try out my pool when you finish work."
"Thanks. I'll be quick" he said as they exited the room almost shoulder to shoulder, with her resisting the urge to deliver a playful tap on his ass as he left, slowing to get behind him and look him over again as he walked.
"I'm staying home today so I'll be down there too, probably baked by the time you finish. It's always good to have a lifeguard around. Maybe I'll bring you a drink" she finished.
"Cool" he said as he trotted down the stairs and out the door.
She picked out her wardrobe while he was changing clothes, wondering whether she could let him finish work today before she moved in. Choosing her most revealing two piece she put her hair into a bun with two loose strands framing her face. She had paid a Monday visit to the spa for a wax, facial and anything else she could think of, so she was ready to be admired and feel comfortably sexy about herself spread wide in any position.
She pulled up on her hood to nudge her tiny clit and sent a jolt through her body; she stroked her moist inner lips, turned and parted her cheeks to look at her behind and admire her symmetrically circular backdoor, a tight crinkled sphincter centered in darker skin that greedily accepted her oiled toys and fingers and pulled her to many a screaming orgasm. She teased herself with her finger, a feather-light stroke up and down her crack before circling the sensitive skin around her anus. Shaking off the urge to cum just once before he returned, she turned her attention to her bikini.
Her suit was a simple cotton string bikini, nothing obscene about it save the color maybe, a blindingly bright tangerine, perfect for her skin tone. The triangles of her top were little more than slings to cradle her boobs and for all practical purposes failed to cover them anywhere but the very center, her soft nipples conspicuously delineated in the thin cotton panels and poking through like stiff little pencil erasers.
The bottom was equally revealing, the front so low that it proposed to the viewer either a lack of pubic hair or, in her case, a meticulously coiffed and foreshortened bush, with the back quite low and skirting the top of her butt; were one so inclined, one could slip a finger into the gap between her skin and the bikini's waistline at the top of her crack. Needless to say, she never wore this one to the club, for it clung to her ass like a second skin and wrapped itself provocatively into the shallow depths of her crack, now enveloping her swollen lips in the front.
Through the kitchen window she watched him return in a lazy jog, long graceful legs in short, ragged jean shorts and still without a shirt. His legs looked especially supple as he had shaved them just recently for a swim meet, so they had a curious quality about them, the smoothness of a woman's legs and the power of a man's. In his hands he carried a pair of long swim trunks. If she played her cards right he wouldn't need those today.
Before he arrived she imagined what was running through her young neighbor's mind as he tried to concentrate on his work, over and over his hand reaching for his swollen manhood to massage the ache, a throbbing she would relive if only he would stop his bothersome labor. Boys are so controlled by their carnal urges she knew. Would he jack off before he returned; would he slip into his bathroom and relieve himself at his house as he changed, spitting into his hand, taking his big tool in his powerful hands and wringing it hard as he imagined himself fucking her?