Mrs. Sanders

I slip into a daydream inspired by all the hot women around me. I don’t know how long I stand there, but the growing discomfort under my belt brings me to myself with a start. I look around in hope that no one has noticed my raging hard-on—and spot Mrs. Sanders over by the drinks, staring at the bulge in my pants. Her eyes are a little wide, and she’s smirking slightly. She looks up and meets my eyes without embarrassment; I only wish I could say the same. She gives me a small thumbs-up, which only deepens my blush, then turns and walks back over to my mother as if nothing has happened.

Later on, as Mrs. Sanders is crossing my path, she stops for a moment and asks, “Chris, could you help me out with something?” She’s standing sideways to me, so I can see the tight curve of her firm ass. I know what I’d like to help her out with, I think.

“Sure, Mrs. Sanders, what do you need?”

“If you could come by tomorrow, or even this afternoon when your party’s over, I need some help with a couple plumbing fixtures. My husband’s out of town this week, and I could use a man with long arms to reach the showerhead. I don’t like getting up on a stool in the shower.” Her tone is completely businesslike. Those double entendres must be coincidence, or maybe just my imagination.

“Sure thing, Mrs. Sanders. I’ll have time between the party and dinner, so this afternoon will work fine,” I tell her. Any time I can check out her sexy ass will work just fine for me.

“Thanks, Chris.” She lays a small hand on my arm. “I appreciate it.”