Coming of Agebyslyc_willie©
(Author's note: This is an official entry into the 2009 Literotica Summer Lovin' story contest. It is a work of fiction concerning a brief, May/December relationship between a young man and older woman. I hope you enjoy this little tale, and please don't forget to vote.)
* * * *
"Andy! Package pick up!"
I was halfway across the warehouse, approaching the flapping double doors to the hardware department, when I heard my manager's nasally, irritating voice. I contemplated a moment about continuing on my way and forgetting I'd heard him, then reconsidered. Part of my job was to help the department store's customers, after all. Even at the age of nineteen, I had cultivated a responsible work ethic.
So instead of heading toward hardware with my pallet jack loaded with power tools, I stopped and called back. "What is it?"
"TV," he shouted through the chaotic, overstocked expanse of the warehouse. His office was right beside the customer pick up bay. "One of those big Sonys."
I groaned. Goddamn it, I thought. Those things weigh a ton. But it was too late to do anything but follow my obligations. Leaving the pallet jack parked to one side of the warehouse's main aisle, I trundled toward the grey doors of the pick up area. Roy met me with a ticket in his hand, and I turned toward the electronics section of the warehouse, dragging a dolly behind me. The immense, sixty-inch television in the box was nearly as tall as I and thrice as wide. I had earned a pretty impressive build over the previous year through hauling, stocking, and loading various kinds of merchandise, but the big-ass projection TVs were behemoths. They weighed more than my almost two hundred pounds.
It took some leverage, but I managed to settle the box on the flat jack and guide the monster out through the doors. I read the customer's last name on the ticket. "Fontana?" I called.
The woman was already striding toward me, clad in slim-fitting blue jeans and a loose white blouse. Had I only seen her from the neck down, I would have sworn that body belonged to a girl my age. Not that she was overly wrinkled, or unattractive in the face by any means, but the faint lines at the edges of her eyes and around her mouth, along with her short black hair, bespoke to me a more advanced age. But not, you know, too advanced.
"Wow, it looks a lot bigger in the box," she commented, her voice smooth but a little raspy. She proffered a little glittering-eyed smile. "I hope it fits."
I had never seen eyes like hers before. They were a crystalline blue, like the faintest refraction of that color through a prism. At once eerie and alluring. I probably stared for a moment too long, because she gave me this coy little look and wink before turning toward the door.
"Come on. I'm parked right outside."
I didn't respond. Words failed me. In a single instant, a woman who could potentially have been old enough to be my mother had turned me on. My soiled and dusty jeans felt constrictive.
Mrs. Fontana led me through the automatic sliding glass doors of the pick up area toward a large white truck parked along the curb. The numerous bracelets around her wrists tinkled lightly when she jerked the tailgate down. She looked to me with a moment's concern. "Are you going to be able to get it up there?"
Something compelled me to be brash. "Oh, I can always get it up," I said, maneuvering the mammoth boxed television in line with the truck. All that was needed was to get the edge of the box over the tailgate. After that, it was just a matter of leverage and strength to slide the damn thing onto the bed.
Several minutes later, after using straps to secure the television in the truck bed, I stepped off the tailgate and, as a courtesy, lifted it back into place. I had been aware of Mrs. Fontana's eyes upon me the entire time, and caught a few catty grins from her as I worked. Her attention was predatory but arousing.
"Can you really?" she asked me once my work was done.
I frowned, confused. "Can I always what?"
She pushed her lips out, just a little, in a way that was poutingly seductive. Her eyes all but literally sparkled. "Get it up."
Instantly, the intimidation factor took hold of me. I felt embarrassed and challenged in ways I had never before experienced. Averting my eyes, I responded with a simple, stock answer.
"Um, looks like you're ready to go,"
"Maybe," she said. Her voice held a sensual, teasing edge. "But maybe not entirely."
I could not say anything more as I watched my casually sexual customer open the door of the truck and climb in behind the wheel. I think I caught a glimpse of a mischievous, naughty smile in the rear view mirror before Mrs. Fontana started the truck and ambled away from the curb.
It took a few minutes before my half-swollen erection shrank behind my jeans.
* * * *
Every Wednesday, I always went for a couple of dogs from Trudy's Red Hots in the mall's food court. Weighing half a pound each and loaded with sliced tomatoes, spicy mustard, diced onions and pepperoncinis, each one was a meal by itself. Considering how hard I worked, it took two of the damn things to fill me up and keep me going for the rest of the afternoon.
As usual, I took a table away from the middle of the food court, beneath a large fake tree of some kind. I liked the seclusion, so that I could enjoy my meal without feeling on display. I was still pretty shy at that age, with only a small group of friends and not much in the way of confidence to endear myself to girls.
"Oh, hi, it's you."
With a mouthful of food, I glanced up to see the same woman I had assisted just two days before. She had looked good in tight jeans, but even better in a denim skirt and soft red halter. A few bracelets adorned each wrist, and a copper bangle was wrapped around her upper left arm. I did not see those too often, and the presence of it made her seem a bit exotic.
I thought to speak, but figured Mrs. Fontana wouldn't appreciate seeing what I was chewing on. She apparently thought my predicament amusing, because she laughed and raised a hand.
"It's okay. I seem to have a knack for catching people at odd moments. I do it to my kids all the time."
I finally managed to swallow and set down my red hot in the little paper-lined basket. "Hi again," I said back. "Um, how's the TV?"
She smiled while rolling her eyes. "Permanently stuck on ESPN," she said ruefully. "My husband's a sports nut. Do you watch sports?"
"Uh, yeah, sometimes." Yeah, you're a great conversationalist, Andy, I berated myself.
I shrugged. "I like soccer," I told her. "Not much of that on TV."
"I bet your girlfriend's happy about that."
Now, even at nineteen, I could tell a loaded statement when I heard one. Mrs. Fontana was probing, of that I was certain. But her mention of kids and a husband made me reluctant to prolong the flirtation. I was bewildered.
"She might be," I said. "If I had one."
She arched a single, finely-detailed brow. "No girlfriend? I find that hard to believe."
The reddening of my cheeks was palpable. "I guess I'm kind of shy."
Mrs. Fontana tittered. "A handsome young man like you shouldn't be shy. Girls should be throwing themselves at you."
I laughed. "I wish."
Her smile was mysterious, contemplative, maybe even scheming. "Personally, I've always preferred the shy types as opposed to the cocky ones. Shy men always seem to have more to offer, once you get down to it."
I did not have a reply to that. My eyes had wandered to her smallish breasts, noting the pronounced nipples making creases in the fabric of her top. "Maybe," was all I could say.
She sort of half-laughed at my comment, then made a thoughtful sound. "What's your name?"
"Andy," I responded.
"It was nice seeing you again, Andy," Mrs. Fontana said, then stepped away with a swish of her hips.
* * * *
With the advantage of hindsight, I should not have been so surprised to see Mrs. Fontana later that afternoon. At four-thirty-something, I was leaving the store through the passenger pick up area, ripping off my gloves and lumbar belt. The bus which would take me toward my parents' home lay beyond the parking lot and a few blocks down Washington Avenue. I was just nearing the edge of the lot when a little blue VW Bug, one of the new ones, cut me off. The passenger window lowered with the faint whir of a tiny motor.
I frowned, leaning down and looking in. There she was, Mrs. Fontana, behind the wheel and smoldering a look over the rim of a pair of sunglasses perched atop the tip of her nose.
"Need a ride?"
I felt both aroused and uneasy. "I, uh, usually just take the bus."
I scratched the back of my head self-consciously. "Working on it."
"Not exactly efficient, is it?"
"Well, the bus gets me close enough."
And then came the loaded question. "Wouldn't you rather go all the way?"
The foolish bravado returned. "When the opportunity presents itself."
Mrs. Fontana's eyes panned over me with the precision and assessing ability of a laser. "Get in."
* * * *
Girls my age were easy to talk to. I shared interests with them, of course: tastes in music, popular culture, the politics of college life. With a woman at least twice my age, however, I felt like a child. I sat quietly in the passenger seat of Mrs. Fontana's car, my earlier bravado absent for the moment. I didn't know what was going to happen, or even what I wanted to happen.
"So, what degree are you majoring in?"
The question jolted me, since it came firing through the silence after almost a full minute inside her car. But I was glad for it. The subject was an easy one for conversation.
"Um, history," I said. "With a concentration in Mediterranean civilization."
"Interesting," she said, briefly flashing me a smile. "Not very practical, though."
I felt a little defensive. "I want to be a teacher."
Her eyes twinkled when she looked to me again. "Not much money in that."
I frowned. "Not everything's about money."
Now Mrs. Fontana shrugged. "If you say so."
I looked around as she drove through a large public park. We were not exactly close to where my apartment complex lay. "Um, where are we going?" I asked. "This isn't my part of town."
"Not mine, either," Mrs. Fontana said. I caught the catty smile at the corner of her mouth again. She kept her eyes on the road, eventually finding a large tree with limbs hanging over a small parking lot near a closed-down gift shop. Upon the sculpted greens around us, families with young children played and ran and laughed.
I shifted uncomfortably as she stopped under the tree. She put the Mercedes in park but left the car idling.
"So, um, what are we doing?" I asked.
She turned in her seat and leaned close to me, left hand settling upon my upper thigh. She stroked up and down as she spoke. "Well," she said. "You're just going to relax and stretch out. I'm going to give you a blowjob like you've never had before."
A tremor passed through my body, carrying currents of anxiety and arousal. I couldn't find the words to respond, but my body was doing enough talking on its own.
Mrs. Fontana cooed as she placed her hand over the denim outline of my cock. I sighed as she groped and massaged me. But I was a little nervous, even uncomfortable. I could tell the car's windows were tinted, but just how tinted were they? There were easily a dozen people within a hundred feet. The risk of being caught was tantalizing, I admit, but also daunting. And, on top of that concern--
The words just blurted out, the way an idea is suddenly launched to your lips the moment it's hatched and you've had a few drinks.
Mrs. Fontana kept her hand where it was, but stopped groping. She turned her face to address me, looking both condescending and amused. "Why should that bother you? He's not here."
I swallowed thickly, mouth dry. My mind listed back and forth, like a galleon on rough seas, between desire for what this woman was offering and fear that allowing her to continue would cause more trouble than pleasure. My brain was somewhere in mid-list when I responded.
"I guess it doesn't bother you."
She must have taken my comment as derision, because she took her hand away and sat up. The sultry look on her face vanished, replaced with stoic impassiveness. "Perhaps I figured wrong, Andy. Maybe I should just take you home."
Panic slashed its way through my chest. "I'm sorry," I said hurriedly. "I've just never, um, met someone like . . . I mean, it's not like this is a regular thing for me, you know."
Mrs. Fontana stared for a moment, making me think how idiotic my words sounded. But as I was internally berating myself, she suddenly sputtered with laughter, slapping her hand back onto my leg and shaking her head. "You're right," she conceded. "And this isn't quite normal for me, either. I suppose I was making too many false assumptions."
I managed to awkwardly match her smile. "Um, it's okay. I'm just not used to, you know, a girl -- I mean, woman -- coming onto me like that."
She chuckled softly, making her eyes glitter. "Not too often a woman twice your age comes along and just randomly offers to suck you off."
My laughter was a relief, an ice-breaker. "Honestly, it'd be pretty nice if it was."
Mrs. Fontana leaned closer once again, sliding her hand across the top of my jeans. "So, can I assume you wouldn't mind if I continued?"
My cock began growing beneath the dirty, dusty denim covering it. "I, uh, I guess not . . . but, um, I've been working all day and, um, I sweat a lot when I work and--"
"Again, it doesn't bother me, so it shouldn't bother you."
I trembled as my cock swelled beneath her kneading fingers. "You serious? I mean, you just wanna suck me off?"
Seductively, exaggerated for effect, she passed her tongue across her upper lip while narrowing her eyes. "I take it that surprises you."
I laughed curtly. "Well . . . yeah."
She insinuated herself even closer, so that the exotic, spicy scent of her perfume wrapped around me and I could feel her breasts pressing against my arm. Her soft, ripe lips parted slowly in an alluring smile. "I'm not some little college-aged girl, Andy," she said flatly. "I'm a woman. And I know what I want."
My dick was bunching up almost painfully in my jeans, making me squirm and flinch. "I'm just not used to that."
Her smile was as patronizing as it was enticing. "You're young," she said while unbuckling my jeans. "You have a lot of wonderful, delicious things to experience yet."
I couldn't say another word as Mrs. Fontana unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans. I automatically lifted my hips, allowing her to push them down to mid-thigh. My cock was heavy and thick, bouncing across my lower abdomen. The smell of musky sweat blossomed in the air, making me concerned. But Mrs. Fontana didn't seem the least bit fazed. In fact, she inhaled deeply through her narrow nostrils while wrapping her cool, slender fingers around my shaft and balls.
"Now that is a beautiful cock," she said in admiration, eyes fixated upon what she held. "Long and thick, but not too much of either. Just nicely above average and perfect for all the right uses."
As if providing proof of her statement, Mrs. Fontana leaned over, first licking, then parting, her lips. She made a sort of hungry, animalistic growling sound that became muffled once soft, slick, caressing lips spread across the head of my penis then slid down the shaft.
I could not help but groan. I could count on one hand how many blowjobs I had enjoyed before that day, and none of them could have compared to what I was now experiencing. I felt nothing but blissful wet warmth. She held about half the length of my dick in her mouth, drawing the essence from the shaft and seepage from the slit, for about a full minute which felt like blessed eternity.
Then she started to bob.
Sucking, pulling, pumping with both her mouth and hands, a woman old enough to be my mother was treating me to the most incredible sexual experience of my life.
I wish I could have lasted longer.
Maybe two minutes passed, I figure, before the lightning rush of orgasm tore through me. I barely had time to gasp as I punched up my hips, driving my cock like a piston between the amazing, massaging lips of my lover. And, to my surprise and gratitude, Mrs. Fontana didn't stop as my cock pumped and gushed in her mouth. Indeed, she muttered a muffled moan of approval upon tasting the eruption I fed her.
It was a novelty for me, having a woman who allowed me to ejaculate in her mouth. The closest I had come was jacking off against a girl's tightly-pursed lips. The pleasure was intense. Mrs. Fontana kept sucking and pulling, swirling her tongue around the head of my dick, making me groan, gasp and wince. Just when it became too much to bear, she slipped her mouth off me, lower lip somewhat glazed with a frothy film, and slowly, firmly, stroked my still-swollen shaft. A thick, glistening bauble of cum seeped from the tip of my cock, shimmering like a clouded diamond. She quickly lapped it away.
I watched her face in profile. Mrs. Fontana looked proud of herself. Satisfied, even. She licked and smacked her lips a few times before speaking again.
"I'd almost forgotten how much a young man comes," she muttered, softly fondling my spent and satisfied cock.
She looked to me, giggling. "'Wow?'"
I laughed back, euphoric. "That was incredible."
Mrs. Fontana bit her lower lip. "Never had a girl let you come in her mouth before?"
I shook my head. "I never felt anything like that before."
She gave me a fond look and petted my softening shaft before easing back behind the wheel. "As I said, you have a lot of wonderful things to learn."
* * * *
I was still in a daze when the Mercedes drove away from the house. The most amazing thing had just happened to me, and it felt as if I had been shoved back through the looking glass into the world of the mundane.
My mother wasn't home yet; she worked nights at the liquor store on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. I wouldn't see her until about ten o'clock. Of course, she had left a list of chores for me to do tacked to the little billboard hanging just inside the front door. I gave her two hundred dollars in rent every month and took care of the "guy stuff" around the house. Not a bad arrangement, I guess. My mom recognized me as an adult and gave me my own space.
There was a crock pot full of beef stew filling the house with tantalizing aromas, to which I helped myself after taking out the garbage and finishing the shelving on the back deck for mom's plants. Then I headed to the garage to work on my ongoing, and beloved, project.
Pieces and parts lay upon shop mats around the primered body of a 1973 Dodge Dart Swinger. I was glad mom humored me with the use of the garage while rebuilding the classic car. It had not been my first choice for such a project, but it had been cheap and in reasonable condition . . . especially for five hundred bucks.
The Swinger had been working when I drove it away from the old man who sold it to me, but only just. It needed a lot of work, but that was what I was prepared for. I didn't know all that much about cars, but after taking the car apart piece by piece and cleaning everything, I knew what still worked and what needed replacing. A manual for the venerable two-seater included detailed plans and blowups, which helped immensely.
I just had to put the damn thing back together.
* * * *
I assumed that brief liaison with Mrs. Fontana would be the end of it. As much as I had enjoyed the pleasure she gave me, reality told me it had been a one-time thing. She was either a slut or she was getting back at her husband for fooling around with his secretary or something. Chances were, I'd never see her again.