Renting a Room from Mrs. Taylor

My mother wasn't thrilled with my choice of moving to a nearby city. She worried about me constantly. But I finally convinced her I was old enough to take care of myself. I packed up my meager belongings and took a bus into the city. Luckily, it didn't take long to find my new home. I began renting a room in the home of my landlady, Helen Taylor, a woman a few years older than my mother. She was a full-figured lady with wide hips, huge boobs, thick thighs, and broad shoulders. She stood almost a full head taller than my 5'4 and more than doubled my weight of 130lbs. She had a standing weekly appointment with her hairdresser which kept her light brown hair perfectly styled all the time. Only when we settled down in the late evening did I see her without her subtly applied makeup.

Most days Mrs. Taylor would wear slacks and a classy blouse. Although there were days when she would wear a tasteful pantsuit or a modest dress. Those were the days she usually went to her office. She had retired from her Law Practice a few years before I moved in, but still did some pro bono work when she felt it was necessary.

Like Mrs. Taylor, her home was huge. 4 bedrooms with 3 bathrooms, a family room, living room, a kitchen that was twice the size of my mothers and a laundry/utility room that was bigger than my old bedroom. My room was just down the hall from Mrs. Taylor's Master Suite. The room I stayed in was obviously decorated by a woman, for a woman. But the delicate colors didn't bother me in the least. The walls in my room were covered with a turquoise and white wallpaper. The hardwood floor was covered with a matching turquoise rug with a white border. The dresser and bedside tables were both white with subtle turquoise accents. The walk-in closet in my room was gigantic. There were rods to hang clothes from on three of the walls. Along both sides of the door were cubby holes for shoes, there were 72 cubbies on each side of the door! Even after my laundry was done and all my clothes were in there, it looked sadly empty.

My bedroom and bathroom were separated by only a large archway, there was no door at all. That took some getting used to. My bathroom was only equipped with an oversized bathtub situated in the middle of the room. The huge tub was raised up off the floor and surrounded by a wide tiled step. Not having access to a shower was strange at first, I hadn't taken a bath since I was a small child. But after my first soak in the tub, I wondered why I ever switched to showers! The tub was easily big enough for four people my size. And it felt like a waste to fill it just for me, but I couldn't resist and soon enjoyed spoiling myself with long soaks in the tub. Mrs. Taylor kept my bath area stocked with big cakes of pink Camay soap, Cherry Blossom Organix shampoo and conditioner and white bath poofs for scrubbing myself clean. While growing up with my mother, she used similar items.

Near the faucets, on the edge of the tub were two baskets. The smaller of which contained a few pink razors and a can of feminine shaving cream. I left that basket untouched. The larger basket was always full of softball-sized, pink bath-bombs. I shied away from these for the first two weeks I lived in her home. Curiosity finally got the best of me and quickly found it impossible not to use them. Mrs. Taylor noticed the first time one of those giant pink bombs was missing from the basket. Shortly afterward she mentioned that I might want to use three or four of them due to the size of the tub. The perfumed, clean scent and the flower petals that remain after the bomb has dissolved are very relaxing and terribly arousing.

The massive front and back yards of her home were cared for by service. All repairs needing to be done around the house were hired out to contractors. This left only the cooking, cleaning and laundry. Upon moving in I began helping with these chores. Over those first few months, Mrs. Taylor learned that my mother had raised me well. I was adept at cleaning any room in the house and soon worked myself into a routine where I cleaned every room in 'our' home once a week. The only exceptions were the two bathrooms we used regularly, I deeply cleaned those at least twice a week. Mother always said I was a bit OCD when it came to cleaning. It had to be perfect before I'd stop.

The laundry was another chore I excelled at. Mrs. Taylor was reluctant to let me wash her clothes at first, but over time she relaxed and I think she enjoyed having me wash her things. Having done both mine and my mother's laundry since I was in junior high, I knew which outfits required dry cleaning, and I delivered them to her preferred shop when necessary. I could also sort out which pieces could be dried and which couldn't. I could replace a button and make minor repairs with a needle and thread. Hand washing Mrs. Taylor's intimates in the utility room's basin with its sloping drainboard was an undertaking I cherished. The big bottle of Woolite for hand-washing was quickly replaced when it ran low. It left everything, including me, smelling fresh and squeaky clean. Scrubbing her immense panties, enormous bras, slips, pantyhose, and nightgowns in the slippery, soapy water made me feel like I was doing something special for her. Not just a silly chore around the house, but it was a special way for me to thank her for allowing me to live in her home.

Once I had all the hand washables scrubbed clean, thoroughly rinsed in cool water and wrung out, I placed them all in a basket and carried it to the backyard. With clothespins, I hung up all of her intimates on the line to dry in the breeze. After several hours, I gathered her things from the clothesline in a basket. I returned to the laundry room and touched up all of her panties, slips, and nightgowns with a warm iron.

It was a special touch my mother had taught me early on. She used to say there was nothing quite as nice as a pressed panty to slip into. When Mrs. Taylor opened her panty drawer the first time after I'd done her laundry, she called me into her room. When I got there I saw her standing by the open drawer staring down at the neatly folded stack of panties. She looked over at me in the doorway and asked if I'd ironed her panties. When I told her I had, she smiled warmly and said I was spoiling her. Without thinking, I softly replied that she deserved it.

Cooking was never my strong suit. I could make a few simple dishes and wasn't bad at desserts, but it was blatantly apparent that Mrs. Taylor was much more skilled in the kitchen. While living with my mother, one of her rules was whoever cooks, doesn't clean. I applied that same rule with Mrs. Taylor. After every meal, I would clear the table and wipe it down with a cloth. I would then prepare Mrs. Taylors after-dinner drink, she preferred a balloon glass of brandy. While gathering all the dishes, pots, pans and cooking utensils, the sink would be filling with hot water. Just before it was filled, I went under the counter to get the Palmolive dish soap. Like my mother, Mrs, Taylor kept a pair of pink rubber gloves resting on the dish soap bottle. It was habit for me to slip-on the gloves after adding soap to the sink. While the suds worked their way into a mountain of perfumed bubbles, I wiped down the working surfaces in the kitchen. Mrs. Taylor would sit at the table and chat with me while I worked.

One evening, with my rubber-gloved hands in the sink washing the evening dishes, Mrs. Taylor casually mentioned that I have a cute butt. I blushed and looked at her over my shoulder. While wiggling my hips around, I teasingly informed her that my mother used to say the same thing. With that, Mrs. Taylor rose from her chair and approached me from behind. She laid her hands on my hips and leaned down close to my cheek. I could smell the expensive Brandy on her breath and the musky perfume she wore. She whispered in my ear, "It's not flat like most boys. No, you have a cute little bubble butt. It's a shame it has to be hidden under these jeans." While whispering those final words in my ear, Mrs. Taylor's hands slid from my hips to my behind. She held a cheek in each hand and gently squeezed and massaged them.

When she first made contact with my cheeks, I froze. My hands were still in the sink and I stood there while she fondled me. While getting to know Mrs. Taylor during my first few weeks in her home, I divulged the fact that my sexual experiences were extremely limited. Her gentle touch on my behind had me more aroused then I'd ever been before. I dared not move, afraid she would stop if I did. I lost all track of time and have no idea how long she had her hands on me I'm not even sure I was breathing. When she began to remove her hands from my body, I found myself pushing my bottom back into her hands.

She leaned down close to my ear again, so close that I could feel her lips moving. She whispered, "Oh, it looks like someone likes his bottom played with." Laying her hands onto my cheeks once again, she whispered, "I'll have to remember to grope you more often."

Later that evening, I laid in bed and played with myself while remembering how Mrs. Taylor had touched me and all that she had said. My mind ran wild with how that encounter could change our relationship. I desperately wanted her to touch me again. But I hadn't a clue as to help make that happen.

Several days passed with neither of us mentioning how she'd touched my body. While washing the dinner dishes later that week, I did peek over my shoulder and caught her staring at my butt. I wiggled it a little and asked if she was enjoying the view. She was working on her second glass of brandy. And after taking a big swig she said, "I am. But the view would be a lot better if you weren't hiding your tight little ass under those jeans!"

Those words she spoke both surprised me and sent an erotic chill through my body. I'd never heard her use a word like 'ass'. She wasn't that sort of lady. A soft moan slipped through my lips and my back arched, which pushed my butt back toward her. I heard her chuckle behind me and say, "That's it, grind your hips for me!"

She rose from her chair and crossed the room. Standing right behind me, the smell of alcohol filled my senses. She leaned in close to my ear and whispered, "Have you been wondering when I'd lay my hands on you again?" I couldn't look back at her. I stared straight down at my hands in the dishwater. Biting my lower lip hard, I nodded my head and whimpered a single word, "Yes."

Her hands slid up the sides of my legs and rested on my hips. With her lips brushing against my ear, she asked, "Is this where you want me to touch you?"

Pushing my hips back toward her, I gasped, "No."

Her hands slid up and down the sides of my thighs. She chuckled softly before whispering, "You smell so pretty. I love that you've been using the bath-bombs and body lotion I set out for you. I do love a boy that smells like soap and flowers. Tell me, are you ever going to use the pink razor and shaving cream I set on the edge of your bathtub?"

I shivered with arousal. I'd been staring at the razor and shaving cream since I'd moved in. I knew she wanted me to use them, why else would she have laid them out? I had picked the razor up a few times and thought about shaving my legs. But I'd always decided against it. If she didn't intend for me to use them, I didn't want her to think I was weird. While still unable to look back at her, I tried to wash a glass while I asked, "Do you want me to shave?"

She took a deep breath and then licked my earlobe. I whimpered softly and pushed my hips back against her. In a soft, sultry whisper, "Sweetheart, I don't want you to shave. I would love for you to shave. A sweet, cute boy such as yourself shouldn't have a single hair beneath his eyelashes. Girls shave their bodies to make them more attractive to men. So why shouldn't a boy shave his body to make it more attractive to a woman? I would much rather look at a perfectly smooth boy than one covered in nasty hair."

Her hands slid to my butt and she cupped a cheek in either hand. Licking my ear once more, she whispered, "Any woman would love your tight butt cheeks with a little wrinkled hole hiding between them without a hair in sight."

Her hands went back to my hips, down my thighs and back up, "And perfectly hairless legs and toes."

While she whispered, her hands slid around to my stomach, up my chest, and down my arms. "Hairless stomach, chest, armpits, arms, and fingers. Yes, smooth boys are my favorites."

I knew it was coming. I'd been standing at that sink aching for it to happen and when it did, I almost lost it. Her hands slid down my chest and stomach and then framed around my rigid cock. She bit my ear gently and whispered, "And bald little penis's just like this one." With those words, one of her hands moved to cup my penis gently.

My penis was small. I knew that. I'd seen enough videos to know for sure that my penis was nowhere near 'man-sized'. It wasn't thick or long. When it was soft, the head and a small part of the shaft poked straight out less than an inch from my body. The shaft was a soft pink color and the head was a slightly darker shade of pink. And my little pouch of balls never hung low, they were always nestled tightly against my body. I knew all of this. But hearing Mrs. Taylor tell me my penis was 'little', made me blush to my very core.

Nibbling on my ear once again and still cupping my stiff penis in her palm, Mrs. Taylor asked, "Well Sweetheart? Are you going to use the razor I left out for you?"

I whimpered in a desperate voice, "Yes, Ma'am. Yes, I will. I promise."

"Mmm, I knew you would. Why don't you head upstairs and run yourself a bath? I'll finish the dishes tonight. Use at least 3 bath bombs and be sure to soak for a while before you shave. There are more razors in the top left drawer. And Sweetie, if you need some help shaving those hard to reach places, just call out for me." She then kissed my neck and pressed her hips against me, trapping me between her and the sink. "Be sure to leave your bedroom door open. If I have to come help shave you, you shouldn't have to get out of the tub."

She stepped back which allowed me to turn and face her for the first time since the discussion began. I was obviously blushing deeply. My penis was rock hard and my breathing was ragged. I was tremendously aroused. Biting my lip, I looked into her eyes and tried to say something, but all I managed to do was stutter.

She leaned in closer until our lips were nearly touching. In that alcohol scented whisper, "If you do manage to shave by yourself, why don't you come to show me the results when you're done. I'll be in the living room waiting for you." She then leaned in and kissed me gently. I nearly came in my underpants.

I took off my rubber gloves and laid them on the counter. Biting my lip once again, I looked up at her and excused myself. I nearly ran up the stairs and into my room. I quickly stripped to my bare skin. And after putting my clothes in the laundry basket, I began to fill the tub in my attached bathroom. While standing naked in the archway separating my bedroom and bathroom, I recalled her telling me to leave my door open, not unlocked. I shivered as I crossed the room and opened my bedroom door all the way and went back toward the tub.

I picked up three pink and three purple bath-bombs and dropped them into the half-full, steaming tub. The room was quickly filled a flowery soapy scent that was decidedly feminine. When the tub was nearly filled, I sat on the edge and slowly slipped into the pink-hued water. It was a bit too warm and took some time for me to get used to it. I had to force myself to relax. I'd been told to soak before I start shaving, so I settled into the tub and got very comfortable.

The next thing I knew, I felt a warm touch stroking my hair. My eyes fluttered open and I saw Mrs. Taylor perched on the edge of the tub above me. She held a freshly filled glass of brandy and was smiling warmly. It took me a minute to realize where I was. But once I did, I quickly covered my penis with my hands.

I was just about to ask what she was doing in there when she began to speak. "I got worried about you Sweetheart. You'd been gone so long and I hadn't heard a sound."

When she reached down to pick up the shaving cream, I noticed she'd already grabbed a full package of the pink razors. She squirted some cream in her hand, raised one eyebrow and suggested we get started. She reached into the tub and pulled out my arm, she coated the skin from the tips of my fingers all the way to my armpit. Picking up the razor, she took measured strokes and was soon returning my arm to the water. When I lifted it back out, there wasn't a hair to be found anywhere. I felt my penis throb beneath my other hand.

Mrs. Taylor repeated the process on my other arm and then moved onto my chest. She had me kneel in the tub, facing her while she carefully removed any trace of chest hair. I used both hands to keep my rigid erection hidden from her. I had never been an overly hairy guy, and that was making the job easier than she expected. In a sing-song voice, she said, "With so little hair to begin with, you were made to be kept perfectly smooth!"

She took another large drink of brandy before moving to the opposite side of the tub. I lifted my leg way up out of the water. She held onto my ankle and coated its length to mid-thigh with shaving cream. Using long strokes, it was soon perfectly smooth. She slid her fingers along my leg to check for stubble, touching up any she found. The process was repeated on my other leg and I soon found myself having legs as smooth as any beach bunny.

Dipping her hand into the water and sliding it up my thigh, she asked what I wanted to do next, the front or the back? I didn't expect to have to choose. My penis was so stiff and had been for so long, I was afraid that when she touched it, it would explode. So, in a soft voice I told her the back.

She had me get into position. I was standing in the tub, facing away from her, leaning against the opposite side of the tub with my legs spread wide. She filled her hands with shaving cream and took her time rubbing it onto my cheeks. Her long fingers slid effortlessly between my cheeks and teased my wrinkled hole until it quivered under her touch. On a few occasions, her slippery fingers slid further between my legs and played with my small sack of balls. After adding more shaving cream to her hands, she covered my cheeks and down my thighs to the point she had stopped shaving earlier.

Rinsing the cream from her hands in the bathwater, she then picked up a new razor and began taking long strokes up my legs. In a soft voice she said, "Oh yes, you are going to look simply adorable without this hair."

She asked me to reach back and spread my cheeks for her. I leaned forward and spread them as wide as I could. She took her time shaving and then checking for stubble. In that same soft voice, she went on to explain, "Keeping a young man naked would be a treat for an old lady like me. I would love watching this tight little butt running around my home. What do you think Sweetie? Would you like to spend some time naked?" Before I was able to respond, she pressed the pad of her index finger against my tight little wrinkled hole.

I gasped and while still holding my cheeks wide apart, I pressed my hips back against her. In a higher than normal pitch, I squeaked, "Yes, Mrs. Taylor!"

She set the razor down and rinsed off the remaining cream from my cheeks with the bathwater. "You're such a good boy. Now turn around so we can finish shaving you."

I stood up and used both my hands to cover my very stiff penis. The water splashed around my legs as I turned to face her. I know I was blushing deeply when I stood before her. Mrs. Taylor reached up and let her hands wander up to my thighs, over my hips and come to rest over my hands. She looked up into my eyes while gently urging me to move my hands away from my penis. I thought I was going to faint when they fell away, fully exposing my little penis to my landlady.