Educating Nathan

"Mrs. Peters, why don't you just let me do it?" She hears the unease in his voice.

Focus, Marta, dammit, don't spook him. "Because, Nathan, if you start to fall off this rickety piece of crap ladder there's no way I can catch you. Just steady me, when I get to the top step. I'll unscrew the old one, hand it to you, and you give me the new one. Easy peazy."

"Okay but I still think you should let me do it."

Marta ignores the last comment and mounts the ladder. Nathan has no choice but to put his free hand on her hip as she reaches the top step. Marta feels unsteady enough, despite one hand on the wall and Nathan's strong hand on her hip that she doesn't need to pretend to be nervous; she is nervous. "You got me?"

"Yes, ma'am. Be careful. You're not supposed to step on the top step."

"Really? Thanks, dad."

"Just saying, Mrs. Peters."

Marta reaches above her head and grasps the lightbulb. Why is this harder than when I did it earlier? Because, dummy, Nathan has a hand on your hip and his face is close enough you can feel his breath on your belly, she answers her own silent question. She stretches a bit more, knowing her shirt has pulled up enough to expose the lower portion of her midriff. The tee shirt is big on her; it's one of Ray's. She's tied it in a knot so that it hangs just below her belly button when she's standing. Stretched as she is, the knot is just below her breasts. That's why she can feel his warm breath on her skin. She fears he'll not notice, being intent on keeping her safe. Pity. She spends a lot of time, and not a little coin, on Pilates. She's proud of her flat stomach. They should call that class, 'exercises for women who want to fuck younger men', they'd have a lot more business, she tells herself as she slowly unscrews the lightbulb. She needs to glance down to hand it to Nathan. She suppresses a smile. His eyes are on her tummy. "Here you go, sugar. Hand me the new one, will ya?" He blushes and her heart, already soft for the young man, melts a bit more.

"I have to let go for a minute," he tells her looking up.

Marta smiles, a genuine smile of warmth and affection. He's such a wonderful kid, Marta. Don't you dare fuck him up! Don't you dare. She reassures herself that she won't. "I'm okay as long as I'm not moving." She holds out the bulb. His hand leaves her hip and takes it from her. He quickly hands her the new bulb and then shifts the old one to his left hand. His right hand goes back to her hip. In his haste, his fingers brush bare skin. She feels goosebumps ripple across her body from the spot where his fingers brushed against her. Her smile widens as his blush deepens. Her smile is so open he can't help but smile back.

"Thank you, honey." She reaches above her, again forced to pay attention to her balance rather than how she can feel the heat of his hand through her cut offs. She wishes her back was too him. The way she's reaching over her head, she's sure he'd be able to see her butt cheeks if her back was turned to him. Oh well, he was getting a look at her firm tummy and maybe even appreciating her boobs. She screws the light bulb in and tugs at the old yellow string. The light blinds her. She jerks the string; the light goes off. She wonders, staring at the string, swaying in front of her eyes, how many times fingers have tugged at it, how many times the light had lit the way for horny teenagers looking for place for a little noodling, how many feet had slowly plodded up these stairs, the unshaded bulb casting harsh shadows in front of them, carrying boxes of memories to be stored and eventually forgotten. She pushes those old, familiar thoughts away as she prepares to climb down the ladder. This part could be a bit tricky. She doesn't want to fuck it up. As she steps off toward the stairs, she pushes backwards with her other foot. The ladder teeters and she 'stumbles' forward. Right into Nathan's arms. Her cry of alarm is not entirely false. She'd tipped the ladder more than she intended. Nathan's arms go around her. She presses herself against him, hands clutching his upper arms.

"Are you okay?" Part of her hates herself for making him worry about her. She presses her chest against his. Her nipples are hard. The tee shirt is old and thin. He's shirtless. She wonders if he can feel her nipples. She rejects the notion of dipping her head and sucking one of his own sweaty, salty, nipples between her lips. As if reading his mind. He steps back, moving up a riser. He's taller than her on flat ground, now he towers over her. His hands drop to his sides.

Quickly, shit for brains. You're scaring him, she snaps to herself. "Nathan, I think I twisted my ankle. Dang it. Help me sit down." Marta holds to one of his arms. He puts a hand on her elbow and she turns to sit on one of the stairs. "Do me a favor, honey. Fold that damn ladder up and get it out of the way, would you?"

"You want me to take it back to the garage?"

"That'd be super." Marta waits until he steps past her and then puts her right foot in her lap and starts to rub her perfectly fine ankle. He hurries down the stairs, carrying the ladder in one hand. She considers ducking into the bathroom and rubbing some rouge and mascara around her ankle to make it look bruised but decides not to be a fool and over play her hand. She starts hobbling down the passageway, using the main staircase's railing for support, doing her best to look as if she's in pain instead of smiling like a lunatic. She's just starting down the stairs, hopping on her left foot, holding her right foot in front of her and holding on to the bannister when Nathan returns.

"Hey, let me help you before you fall and break your neck." He hurries up the stairs and stoops so she can put one arm around his neck. Being this close to him makes her heart rate kick up a notch. She feels the heat of his skin through her thin shirt. The hand on her hip and the arm that wraps around her lower back burn. She smells his sweat and cut grass and underneath, she swears she smells his desire. Visions of spinning in his arms, grabbing his face, kissing him, forcing him back on the steps, pulling his pants off, or at least down and mounting him, fill her head. By the time they reach the bottom of the stairs lust has made her flush. "Are you okay? Are you in a lot of pain? Do you think you broke it?"

The concern in Nathan's voice makes her feel small. She smiles and pushes herself away. "I'm fine, hon. It's just a little sprain. I'm okay." She makes her way toward the living room, the room her mother still refers to as the 'parlor'. She limps but keeps it to a minimum. "I'm mostly just hot." That part was true enough, if not exactly in the manner Nathan assumes. "Are you sure?" Nathan asks, keeping one hand on the back of her arm. She nods. "Nathan, I don't mean to treat you like a houseboy but would you get me a glass of ice water? Grab yourself a Coke or tea."

"No problem, Mrs. Peters. Be right back."

Once he's out of sight, Marta drops the limp and hurries to the living room. She tells herself to get a grip. She's been watching him for years, working in either his yard or hers. He might not be on a team but his body is trim and muscled. She had started dreaming about him a couple of years ago. She felt ashamed but had never shaken the desire. He's the son of her best friend, her son's best friend, or former best friend, and she had been imagining him between her legs, imagining getting him hard, putting him in her mouth. She'd imagined so many things. He was still the son of her best friend but he was 'legal' now. Technically, according to the fine state of Alabama he'd been legal since he was sixteen. Why Marta had felt ashamed of her thirty-six-year-old self lusting after the sixteen-year-old Nathan but not her thirty-eight-year-old self lusting after the eighteen-year-old Nathan is a mystery she's ceased to ponder. She feels the summer is racing past her. Time's running out. In just a few weeks, Nathan will be three hours away, surrounded by nubile females his own age who will see him with eyes unhindered by years of high school nerd-dom; they'll be on him like white on rice. He's a good kid, a nice kid. She hates the idea of scaring him. She knows if she hurts him she'll hate herself.

She hurries over to where her phone rests beside the receiver and picks a new playlist. The sounds of the Cure appear as if by magic. She hobbles, in case Nathan returns faster than anticipated, back to the couch and leans against the arm. She pulls her right leg up onto the couch and bends over it making a show of rubbing it. The neck of her tee shirt is stretched, plus, the shirt is too big for her. She knows that when Nathan sits down he'll have a perfect view of her tits.

"Here you go, Mrs. Peters." Nathan stands behind the couch, holding out the glass. Condensation is already running down the sides. "Thank you, Nathan. You're a peach. Sit the glass down on the table, there's a coaster and take a load off. It's hotter'n Satan's ass crack today." He sits down at the opposite end of the sofa. Marta is looking down at her ankle but watching him from under her hanging hair. He tries not to look. He's a sweet kid but he's a kid. He glances and glances and then his gaze is snared. She gives him a good long secret look before sitting up and turning to pick up the water she'd requested. She drinks, then runs the glass across her forehead. "You didn't get yourself anything to drink?" He shakes his head. She studies him, quietly sipping her water. His chest is smooth but thick dark clumps of hair adorned his armpits. The urge to throw herself on top of him and start kissing all that glistening exposed skin and muscle threatens to overwhelm her. She tells herself that he looks scrumptious. She wants to taste him, his lips, his sweat, his dick, his cum, all of him. There's a smaller, but just as thick and just as dark, curl of hair above the top of his shorts that she longs to reach out and play with. Everything about him has her juices flowing.

"How come you're not wearing your contacts?"

He shrugs. "I figure there might be dust and stuff and that glasses would be easier."

"Good idea. I have to say, I think you look sexier with glasses." She is not lying. He does. The glasses frame his face, draws your attention to the strong cheek bones and the bright hazel eyes behind the lens. He blushes. "Sorry, Nathan, I don't mean to make you blush but it's true, nonetheless. You've turned into quite a handsome young man." He shrugs. "Don't let that embarrass you, honey. Don't be a jerk about it but on the other hand don't you doubt for a second that you're a good lookin' fella, 'cause you are, and acknowledging the fact can give you a little boost of self-confidence. I bet you have to fight off the girls at school."

He gives a sharp bark of derision and shakes his head. "Hardly," he says softly, and with a hint of bitterness that makes her heart ache for him.

"Then they're dumber than I've been giving them credit for. You know, I've heard all my life how women mature quicker than men. That may be, at least as far as growin' boobs and hair between their legs but it sure'n hell isn't when it comes to learnin' how to spot a good man. Hell, most women never learn that skill. Trust me, Nathan, when you get to the University and near girls with more sense than tit, you'll do just fine."

"That'll be worse," he whispers.

"How do you mean, honey?"

"I," he starts, shakes his head, licks his lips. "I, I wouldn't know what to do," he blurts. His cheeks turn an even deeper shade of red.

"Well, maybe you'll both be in the same boat, honey. If you pick a good one, she'll be happy to learn along with ya." She stretches out, making sure her tee shirt pulls up a bit. She holds her foot up. "Nathan, I know I'm turnin' into an awful nuisance, but would you mind rubbin' my ankle? It's startin' to stiffin' up a bit."

He reluctantly reaches over and does as she asks.

"Honey, it's an ankle, not a gator, it won't bite. Just sorta rub it and stretch it a little. I'll let you know if it's starting to hurt. Here, let me scoot down a bit, make it easier." She does. More of her shirt pulls up. Her belly is exposed from the top of her shorts to the bottom of her boobs. She's lying on the couch now, foot in Nathan's lap. He gives her a sidelong glance and begins to rub her ankle. Then he puts the heel of her foot in one hand and grabs the ball with the other and moves her foot in circles.

"That's feels wonderful, sugar, but bigger circles, really stretch it."

He does and whether it was on purpose or an accident, the side of her foot rubs over the hard bulge in his jeans. There's a momentary hesitation. She waits, wondering if, on the next circle, her foot will brush his erection again or not. When it does, she swallows a smile. She's more confident than ever that she'll be getting her wish.

"What did you mean, you wouldn't know what to do? You mean kissing or, um, sex, uh, intercourse?"

"Everything, all of it."

"Nathan, are you tellin' me you've never kissed a girl?" Marta's eyes are closed but peeking at him from under her eyelids. His eyes are fixed on the sheen of sweat on her bare tummy.

"Not really, I mean, yeah, middle-school games and dares but not real kissing."

"My ankle feels better, hon. You can stop. I don't mean to tire you out." He stops moving her foot and removes his hands. One hand goes to the arm of the sofa, the other rests on top of her shin. The foot stays in his crotch. She moves her toes up and down, seemingly causally (she hopes) managing to caress the hard bulge in his jeans. She watches, peeking from mostly closed eyes, as his own eyes flutter closed. She rubs a little harder. He swallows hard. Suddenly, his eyes spring open, as if he's just woke from a deep sleep. He starts to rise. Marta sits up and swings her leg off his lap.

"Nathan, come here. Sit by me."

He's half risen off the couch. He looks unsure, on the verge of panicking.

"Sit down, sugar. It's fine. I have an idea. You might even like it." She gives him a soft smile, a mom smile, a don't-worry-I'm-not-going-to-hurt-you smile. He sits down. She leans back into the corner of the sofa. "Come closer. Sit right beside me." He moves, pauses, inches over, pauses and then, gathering his courage, scoots over beside her. His thigh is hot against her leg. The crotch of her panties are sopping wet.

"Now this is probably how you'd be sitting on a couch with a young lady, isn't it? Maybe the positions would be reversed. Do you want to sit here and I'll sit where you are?"

"No, ma'am," he whispers.

"Okay, then. Lean in a little with your upper body and put your left arm behind me, behind my back." He hesitates. "Go on, Nathan. It's fine. Put that arm behind me and rest your right arm on my shoulder, hold the back of my head with your right hand." He looks so unsure, so vulnerable she wonders if she should stop. "Nathan, I don't mind helping you with this but if you'd rather not, honey just say so. Do you want me to teach you a little bit about kissing?" He nods. She leans forward. "Like this then, sweetie." She positions his arms around her. When she leans back, she holds onto him, pulling him toward her. Their faces are close. Goddamn, his eyes are pretty, she thinks to herself. "See what a good position this is for kissing," she whispers. "Here, let's take off your glasses." She reaches up and removes his glasses, folds them, and twists around to put them on the end table, making sure her breast presses against his arm as she does. When she turns back, she puts a hand behind his head.

"Okay, sweetie, kiss me."

"Uh, I, uh..."

"It's okay, baby. There's nothing wrong with it. You're a beautiful sexy young man and I want to make sure you know how to deal with those hot young babes that'll be hangin' all over you. Kiss me, Nathan. Please. Don't you think I'm sexy?"

"Oh my God, Mrs. Peters, do I think you're sexy? Jesus. I'm losing my mind here. What about Mr. Peters? Uh, Ryan?"

"Ryan's got nothing to do with this and Ray's always liked you. I don't think he'd mind me helping out with your education, even if it's a bit unorthodox." She smiles at him and brushes the hair away from his forehead. "If you think I'm sexy, then kiss me. Please."

He leans forward. His lips touch hers, so very heart achingly softly. Marta presses her lips more firmly to his, working her fingers in his hair. He seems stuck, so she pulls back, kisses the side of his mouth, the other side, then the center. "Nathan, your lips are goddamn heaven, honey." She kisses him again, then caresses his lips with the tip of her tongue. Nathan moans softly. She takes advantage of his slightly parted lips and pushes her tongue into his mouth. She runs it over his teeth, his perfect teeth, and touches the tip to the tip of his own. When she leans back he opens his eyes.

"Nathan, I've been kissing you and it's absolutely heavenly but now it's your turn. I want you to kiss me. It's hard to do kissing wrong as long as you're careful not to bump someone with your teeth and remember the trick is to be subtle. Don't go trying to tickle a young lady's tonsils with your tongue. It's often best to let her set the pace. She'll let you know, one way or another if she likes what you're doing. Having said that, it's okay to nibble and nip at the other person's lips or tongue. Hmm, maybe I better show you what I mean." She pulls his head closer and takes his lower lip between her teeth. Their eyes are opened, glued to each other. She tugs on his lip. "Like that," she whispers. "Your turn."

His kisses are tentative at first but so very, very sweet. Instinct, or hormones, kick in and his kisses become more fervent, more desperate. His tongue plunges into her mouth. He kisses the corners of her mouth, her chin, even her cheeks. His arms tighten around her. She puts a hand on his chest, kneading the firm muscles. Her lips grow fuller, both sets.

"Kiss the side of my neck, baby," she whispers, pulling away and letting her head fall back over the arm of the sofa. "Nipping is okay but no hickies, Nathan." He doesn't answer. His face is already pressed against her neck. He only has a few whiskers but what he has feels wonderful against the sensitive skin of her throat. Marta realizes she made a serious mistake when she decided not to wear a bra. "Nathan, baby, hang on a moment, sugar. I had no idea today would turn into a tutoring session." That's true enough; she'd planned on simply jumping his hot young bones. "I'll be right back." She hops off the couch and runs down the hall to the laundry room and grabs a bra, a clean one, off the top of the basket. She fears Nathan may have panicked and bolted for the door but he's there, flushed and sweaty, his face cycling through looks of naked desire, fear, curiosity, and all three at the same time. She turns slightly, realizing brazen is the wrong approach for both of them. She knows when her engine is being revved up with the parking brake on, brazen comes naturally to her. But that's the wrong approach in this situation. He doesn't need brazen, he needs security and comfort and playing that role is far more sexy sounding than playing cougar.

"Sugar, this is the point when you'd probably be wondering about doing more than kissing. When I was your age, boys would simply start pawing. You had to practically smack them to get them to stop. You're a smart boy, more important you're a kind person. Nowadays, when a young woman says, 'stop' or 'no', that's what you do. As a woman, I personally think it's okay to ask, once mind you, if the young lady is sure she wants you to stop but only ask once. What I know, as a woman, is that you'll do better asking than pushing, don't be bashful but don't keep yammering when it's clear she's reached her limit. What comes after kissing, is what we'll work on next, hon." As she's talking, she's also pulling off her sweaty tee shirt. She holds it between her knees. He's able to get a good look at her right boob as she puts the bra on and slips back into my tee shirt. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him stand up.