Helping Out Mrs. Turner

Helping out Mrs. Turner

The doorbell camera caught Mike Hall wiping his palms on his cargo shorts for the third time before he pressed the button. Eighteen years old. Graduated two weeks ago. Still hadn't figured out what came next, but Mrs. Turner paid twenty bucks an hour for yard work, and that was twenty bucks more than sitting on his mom's couch playing video games.

The door swung open.

Claire Turner stood in the frame wrapped in white silk. A robe. Short. Barely reaching mid-thigh. Her hair hung wet against her shoulders, darker than usual, water still beading on her collarbone. The smell hit him first, something expensive and floral that made him think of department stores and places he couldn't afford.

"Oh sweetie, thank you so much for helping me today!"

She smiled. Big. Warm. The kind of smile his grandmother gave him when he showed up for Sunday dinner.

Mike's eyes darted down before he could stop them. The robe gaped at the chest, revealing the swell of tanned skin, the shadow between her breasts. He snapped his gaze back up. Too fast. Obvious.

"Yeah, uh, no problem. Happy to help." His voice cracked on the last word. Eighteen years old and still cracking like a kid going through puberty.

Claire stepped aside, gesturing him through. The silk shifted against her body. No bra. He could see that now. The outline of her nipples pressing against the fabric. He looked at the floor. The wall. Anywhere else.

"Come in, come in! It's so hot out there. Can you believe this weather?"

Mike shuffled past her, catching another whiff of that lotion. His skin felt too tight. The hallway was cool, air conditioning humming somewhere deep in the house, but his face burned anyway.

"So, um, what do you need done today? Mowing? Trimming?" He shoved his hands in his pockets, pulled them out, crossed his arms, uncrossed them. Couldn't figure out what to do with his body.

Claire tapped a manicured finger against her lips. French tips. Perfect ovals. Everything about her was perfect in that way that didn't look quite real, like she'd stepped out of his Instagram feed.

"Actually, honey, I need help with the garden shed." She started walking, and he followed because what else was he supposed to do? The robe swayed with her hips. Left, right, left. He tried not to watch. Failed.

"The shed?"

"Mhmm." She led him through the kitchen, all white marble and stainless steel, out the sliding glass door into the backyard. The heat hit him like a wall. "Mr. Turner left it such a mess before his trip. All those tools just thrown everywhere. I need someone big and strong to reorganize everything for me."

She turned back, eyes traveling down his body. Slow. Deliberate. He felt himself straighten up without meaning to.

"You're getting so tall, sweetie. When did that happen?"

"Uh. I don't know. Sophomore year, maybe?"

The shed stood at the back corner of the yard, weathered wood and a door that hung crooked on its hinges. Directly in front of it, maybe fifteen feet away, sat a cushioned lounger facing its direction. A small table beside it held a water bottle, a tube of sunscreen, and a pair of designer sunglasses.

Claire stopped at the shed, pulling the door open. Inside was chaos. Rakes and shovels jumbled together, bags of fertilizer stacked haphazardly, terra cotta pots in various states of cracked and whole. A mess, sure, but not exactly complicated.

"I need everything organized, baby. All the pots on the bottom shelf, tools hanging on the hooks, fertilizer bags stacked nice and neat in the corner." She pointed with each instruction, her arm brushing his. He flinched. She didn't seem to notice. "Can you do that for me?"

The way she asked. Like he was five years old and she wasn't sure he could tie his own shoes.

"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that."

"Oh, you're such a good boy." She squeezed his shoulder. Her hand was warm, fingers pressing into the muscle, lingering there a beat too long. "Mr. Turner is away on business for the whole week. It's so nice having a strong young man around to help."

Mike didn't know what to say to that, so he nodded.

"It's just been so lonely here by myself." She sighed, dramatic, her chest rising and falling. The robe shifted again. He caught a glimpse of more skin. Looked away. "Well! I'll let you get to work. I'm going to change into something more comfortable and get some sun. This heat is just too much to waste inside."

She walked away, hips swaying, robe fluttering. Mike stood at the entrance of the shed, watching her go. The sliding door opened, closed. She disappeared into the house.

He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Okay. Just work. Do the work."

He stepped into the shed.

The space smelled like dirt and motor oil and something green, maybe fertilizer. He grabbed the first pot, a big terra cotta thing with a crack running down one side, and bent to place it on the bottom shelf. His shorts pulled tight across his thighs. He straightened, grabbed another pot, bent again.

This wasn't hard. This was easy. Just moving stuff around.

He fell into a rhythm. Pot, shelf, pot, shelf. His mind wandered. He thought about the new Call of Duty releasing next month. Thought about whether his buddy Derek would want to hit up the lake this weekend. Thought about nothing in particular.

The sliding door opened again.

Mike looked up.

Claire Turner stepped onto the patio, and his brain short-circuited.

The robe was gone. In its place, a bikini. White. Tiny. Two triangles of fabric stretched across breasts that couldn't possibly be real, not that round, not that full, not defying gravity like that. The cups dug into the flesh, creating that pushed-together cleavage he'd only seen in magazine ads. Her stomach was flat, tanned, with the faint outline of abs visible beneath smooth skin. The bottoms tied at each hip, thin strings that looked like they'd come undone with the slightest tug. They sat low, really low, exposing the sharp cut of her hip bones, the small valley leading down between her thighs.

She walked toward the lounger. Slow. Unhurried. Each step made her tits bounce slightly, the fabric straining to contain them. Her ass, when she turned to spread a towel on the chair, was round and firm, the bikini bottom riding up to expose the lower curves, the crease where ass met thigh.

Mike realized he'd been holding a pot in mid-air for probably thirty seconds. He set it down. Missed the shelf. It clattered to the ground.

Claire looked up, squinting against the sun. "Is something wrong, sweetie? You look confused."

His mouth opened. Closed. He could feel blood rushing to his face. Other places too, and that made it worse.

"No. Nope. Nothing's wrong. Just, uh, dropped this pot."

She tilted her head, a small smile playing at her lips. Her hair had dried into blonde waves that fell across her shoulders, framing the swell of her breasts.

"Are you sure, honey? Your face is all red. You look overheated."

"I'm fine. Totally fine."

She shook her head, making a soft tutting sound. "You boys never take care of yourselves. Wait right there."

She walked toward him. Directly toward him. Each step bringing those tits closer, the bounce hypnotic. He couldn't look away. Tried. Couldn't. She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell the lotion again, see the small mole on the inside of her left breast, count the individual droplets of sweat beginning to form on her chest.

She handed him a glass of water. He hadn't even noticed she'd been carrying it.

"Drink this. You need to stay hydrated in this heat."

"Thanks." The word came out strangled.

He took the glass, his fingers brushing hers. She was looking up at him now, close enough that he could see the makeup on her face, perfect and precise, the false lashes that made her eyes look bigger, the glossy pink of her lips.

Her perfume hit him again. He felt dizzy.

"Such a good boy," she murmured. "Working so hard for me."

His cock twitched in his shorts.

What the hell?

He stepped back, almost tripping over a bag of fertilizer. Water sloshed over his hand.

"I should, um, get back to work."

"Of course, honey." She smiled again, that grandmother smile, like nothing weird was happening at all. "Don't work too hard."

She turned and walked back to the lounger. Lay down on it, face toward the sun, body stretched out like an offering. From this angle, he could see the underside of her tits, the way the fabric barely covered her nipples, the visible outline of them pressing against the thin material.

Mike drank the water in three gulps. His hand was shaking.

He turned back to the shed.

What the fuck was wrong with him? She was his neighbor. His mom's friend. Older than his mom, probably. He'd known her since he was a kid. She'd given him juice boxes and let him swim in her pool.

He grabbed a rake, hung it on a hook. Grabbed a shovel, hung it next to the rake. His hands were still shaking.

It's just a bikini. People wear bikinis. It's summer. It's hot. Normal. Totally normal.

He bent to grab a bag of fertilizer, and his cock pressed against the front of his shorts. Half-hard. Getting harder. He shifted, trying to adjust without touching himself, without being obvious.

Jesus Christ.

He picked up the bag, carried it to the corner, stacked it on top of another. Bent again. His shorts tightened. The pressure against his dick made his breath catch.

Stop it. Stop. Think about something else. Baseball. Math homework. That dead squirrel he saw on the road last week.

He risked a glance toward the lounger.

Claire had her eyes closed, face tilted toward the sun. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, making her tits shift inside the bikini. One hand rested on her stomach, fingers splayed across that tanned, taut skin.

Mike looked away so fast his neck cracked.

This was going to be a long afternoon.

***

The shed was half-organized. Mike had managed to get all the pots on the bottom shelf, the tools hanging in a crooked row on the wall. The fertilizer bags sat in the corner, stacked three high. His back ached from bending and lifting. Sweat ran down his spine, soaking the cotton of his t-shirt.

He stepped out of the shed to grab his water glass, empty now, and that's when he heard it.

"Oh gosh, I always forget how hard this is to do yourself!"

Claire sat up on the lounger, a tube of sunscreen in her hands. She squeezed a white blob into her palm, then started rubbing it onto her left leg. Long strokes. Slow. Starting at the ankle and sliding up, over the curve of her calf, the bend of her knee, higher.

Mike stood frozen, water glass dangling from his fingers.

Her hands reached her thigh. She massaged the lotion into the skin, fingers pressing, kneading. The muscle shifted under her touch. She lifted her leg slightly, showing off the smooth underside, the tender skin behind her knee.

"Gotta make sure I get everywhere or I'll burn!"

She switched to the other leg. Same treatment. Ankle to thigh, slow and thorough. Her bikini bottom pulled tight against her crotch as she shifted positions, creating a visible crease. A cameltoe. Mike knew what that was from the internet, from locker room talk, but he'd never seen one in real life, not this close, not this obvious.

He should go back in the shed. He should look away. He should do literally anything except stand here with his mouth hanging open like an idiot.

Claire moved on to her arms. One, then the other. The motion made her tits bounce gently, back and forth, a hypnotic sway that he couldn't tear his eyes from.

Then she started on her chest.

Her hands, white with lotion, pressed against the tops of her breasts. She rubbed in small circles, working the sunscreen into the tanned skin above her bikini line. Her fingers dipped lower, sliding under the edge of the fabric, pulling it down slightly to get the coverage underneath.

Mike's cock throbbed.

"There we go," she murmured, mostly to herself. Then her head turned, and she caught him staring. "Oh! Are you okay, honey? You look hot. Your face is all red!"

He was going to die. Right here in this backyard. Heat stroke or embarrassment, one of the two.

"I'm fine. Just. Working." The words came out choppy, broken.

Claire frowned, that concerned-mother look that made him feel about six years old. "You should take your shirt off like me. It's so hot today, sweetie. You'll overheat."

"That's okay. I'm okay."

"Don't be silly." She sat up fully, sunscreen forgotten, giving him her full attention. Her tits shifted with the movement, barely contained by those tiny triangles of white. "Take it off. You'll feel so much better."

It wasn't really a question. More like an instruction. The same tone his mom used when she told him to clean his room.

Mike hesitated. His shirt was soaked through, sticking to his chest, outlining whatever meager muscles he'd managed to build from high school soccer. Not impressive. Not like the guys in the gym with their protein shakes and bench press routines.

"I don't, uh..."

"Come on, baby. Just take it off. I won't bite."

She smiled when she said it. Something in the smile he couldn't quite read.

He grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

The air hit his damp skin, cooler than he expected. He stood there, shirt bunched in his hands, not sure what to do with it. Not sure what to do with himself. His chest was on display now, lean and defined but not bulky, a smattering of chest hair he'd been vaguely proud of since it started growing junior year.

Claire's eyes moved down his body. Slow. Appraising.

"Oh my goodness." She stood up, walked toward him. Her tits bounced with each step. "Look at you! You're getting so big and strong!"

She stopped right in front of him. Too close. Her perfume wrapped around him, thick and sweet. She reached out and grabbed his bicep, squeezing.

"When did you get muscles like this?"

"I don't, um, I played soccer. In high school." His voice was doing that cracking thing again.

Her fingers kneaded his arm, tracing the line of the muscle. "Soccer! That's so nice. You must have been so good."

"I was okay. Bench warmer, mostly."

She laughed like he'd said something genuinely funny. Her hand slid down his arm, over his elbow, down his forearm. The touch left a trail of heat on his skin.

"You must make all the girls at school so excited!"

Mike's brain stalled. He didn't know what to say. The truth was complicated. He'd kissed two girls in high school. Emily Parker at junior prom, a brief press of lips that tasted like punch and awkwardness. And Jessica Nguyen at a house party senior year, drunk, fumbling, his hand on her bra through her shirt before she pushed him away and threw up in the bushes.

Not exactly a wealth of experience.

"I guess," he managed.

Claire's hand was still on his arm. Her thumb traced small circles on the inside of his wrist, right over his pulse point. His heart was hammering. She had to feel it.

"So shy," she murmured. "That's so cute, sweetie."

She released him and stepped back. The absence of her touch left him feeling cold despite the ninety-degree heat.

"Well, back to work! And keep hydrating, okay? I don't want you passing out in my yard."

She returned to the lounger, laying back down, eyes closing against the sun. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn't just spent two minutes feeling him up.

Because that's what that was, right? Feeling him up?

Mike's thoughts tangled. No. She was just being friendly. Neighborly. She'd known him since he was a kid. This was normal. Totally normal.

He walked back to the shed on legs that felt unsteady.

The last of the fertilizer bags needed stacking. He grabbed one, bent at the waist, and lifted. His cock, still half-hard, pressed against his zipper. The pressure made him suck in a breath.

"Oh, honey?"

He straightened too fast, nearly dropping the bag. "Yeah?"

Claire was sitting up again, gesturing toward the lounger. "Can you move this side table a bit closer? I can't reach my water."

The table sat two feet from the lounger. She could absolutely reach her water if she just leaned forward slightly. But Mike nodded anyway.

"Sure."

He walked over, hyperaware of every step, every sway of his shorts. His erection had subsided somewhat, but not entirely. Not enough. He stood next to the lounger, bent to grab the table legs.

"That's it, sweetie, just a little more to the left..."

He shifted the table an inch.

"No, no, the other left."

He shifted it back.

"Hmm, maybe a bit forward?"

He moved it forward, bending lower. His shorts pulled tight across his ass. He could feel her eyes on him, though he couldn't see her from this angle.

Her hand touched his leg.

Mike jerked upright so fast he nearly knocked the table over. His heart slammed against his ribs.

"Sorry, honey! I didn't mean to startle you!" She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "You just had a bug on your leg. I was brushing it off."

A bug. Sure. Okay.

"Thanks." His voice came out hoarse.

"Such a good boy. So jumpy, though." She lay back down, adjusting her position. The bikini bottom rode up higher on her hip, exposing more skin, more of that perfect tan. "You can get back to work now."

Dismissed. Like a child who'd interrupted the adults.

Mike walked back to the shed. His cock was fully hard now, straining against his shorts, visible if anyone looked closely. He grabbed another bag of fertilizer and focused on stacking, on breathing, on not thinking about the way her fingers had pressed against his thigh.

Hot. It was just hot. His body was confused by the heat. That was all.

He heard her shift on the lounger. Risked a glance.

She was adjusting her bikini. Tugging at the bottoms where they'd ridden up, pulling the fabric down, then smoothing it flat against her hip. The motion was innocent, probably. Just fixing her swimsuit. People did that. Normal behavior.

But the way she did it. Slow. Deliberate. Her fingers trailing along the line where fabric met skin.

She caught him watching.

"This thing keeps riding up!" She laughed, embarrassed. Or pretending to be. "These bikinis are so annoying, don't you think?"

Mike had no frame of reference for bikinis. He'd never worn one. Never thought about wearing one. The question made no sense.

"I guess?" he offered.

"You guess." She smiled, amused. "You're so funny, sweetie."

She went back to sunbathing. He went back to stacking.

The afternoon crawled forward.

Mike finished organizing the shed around 2:30. Every pot in its place. Every tool on its hook. Fertilizer bags stacked in a perfect pyramid in the corner. He stood back to admire his work, wiping sweat from his forehead.

The shed looked good. Professional, almost. Mr. Turner would be pleased. Assuming Mr. Turner ever actually went in here.

Mike stepped out into the afternoon sun, which had gotten stronger, hotter. The light was brutal now, pressing down on his bare shoulders, making his skin prickle with the beginning of sunburn.

"All done, honey?"

Claire was still on the lounger. She'd shifted positions at some point, now lying on her stomach with her face turned toward him. The bikini top was untied, the strings trailing limply at her sides, leaving her back bare. The bottoms had ridden up completely, disappearing between her ass cheeks, which were round and golden and very much on display.

Mike's throat went dry.

"Yeah. Shed's done."

"Oh, wonderful! Come here, let me see."

She didn't move. Didn't flip over. Just patted the edge of the lounger, inviting him closer.

He walked over on autopilot, brain not fully engaged. Stopped beside her, eyes locked on the curve of her spine, the dimples above her ass, the way the sun made her skin glow.

"You look tired, sweetie. Working so hard in this heat." She propped her chin on her hands, looking up at him. From this angle, her tits pressed against the lounger cushion, squished and bulging at the sides. "Would you like something to drink? There's lemonade in the kitchen."

"That sounds good. Thanks."

He didn't move. Couldn't, really. His feet had rooted to the ground.

Claire smiled up at him, that knowing smile he couldn't quite interpret. "Can you hand me my water bottle first? It's right there on the table."

He turned, grabbed the bottle. When he turned back to hand it to her, she'd shifted position again. Rolled slightly onto her side, one arm pressed against her chest, holding the untied bikini top in place. Barely. The fabric had slipped, revealing the outer curve of her breast, the soft pale skin where her tan ended, the beginning of an areola.

Mike's hand trembled as he held out the bottle.

"Can you open it for me, baby? My hands are all slippery with lotion."

He twisted the cap. The plastic cracked as the seal broke. He handed it back.

She took it from him, her fingers wrapping around his for a moment. Holding. Lingering. Her thumb stroked across his knuckle.

"Thank you, sweetie."

She brought the bottle to her lips and drank. Long, slow swallows. Her throat worked, the column of her neck stretching, head tilted back. Water dripped from the corner of her mouth, ran down her chin, fell onto her chest. The droplet traced a path between her breasts, disappearing into the shadowed cleavage.

"Oops! I'm so messy today!"

She wiped at the water, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, and Mike realized he'd stopped breathing.

"You should get that lemonade," she said, voice casual. "Go on inside. I'll be right here."

He turned and walked toward the house. His cock was so hard it hurt, pressing against his zipper with every step. The friction was maddening. He adjusted himself as he walked, a quick, furtive grab that did nothing to relieve the pressure.

Inside, the air conditioning was a shock. Cold air hit his sweaty skin, raising goosebumps. He found the kitchen, the refrigerator, a pitcher of lemonade on the middle shelf. Poured himself a glass with hands that wouldn't quite steady.

What was happening?

Nothing was happening. She was just sunbathing. Being friendly. He was the one making it weird. He was the one with the dirty mind, reading sex into everything she did.

He drank the lemonade too fast, brain freeze spiking through his skull. Poured another glass. Drank that one slower.

By the time he got back outside, his erection had softened. Not gone, but manageable. He could pretend to be normal. He could finish whatever else needed doing and go home and jerk off in the shower until his arm cramped.

Claire had flipped onto her back. Her bikini top was retied, thank god, though the triangles seemed smaller than before, barely covering her nipples, the rest of her tits spilling over the edges. Her eyes were closed, arms stretched above her head, body displayed like a centerfold.

Mike stopped at the edge of the patio.

"Feel better, honey?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

She opened her eyes, squinting against the light. "Can you help me with something?"

Warning bells went off in his head. Faint ones. Easy to ignore.

"Sure. What do you need?"

She gestured at the lounger beneath her. "This thing is stuck. I want to adjust it, you know, sit up more, but the mechanism won't budge. Can you try?"

He walked over, stood beside her. The lounger did have a lever on the side, metal, rusted. He bent to grab it.

"You have to push it from underneath," she said. "Here, let me scoot up."

She didn't scoot up. She scooted back. Toward him. Her ass brushing against his thighs as she repositioned herself, her body pressing into the space where he stood bent over.

Mike's cock, which had been behaving, surged back to full hardness. The front of his shorts made contact with the curve of her ass. He could feel the heat of her through the fabric. The softness.

"Can you push a little harder, sweetie?"

His brain went blank. Push what harder? The lever? Her? What was happening?

"I'm trying," he managed.

The lever wouldn't budge. He pushed harder, and his hips rocked forward, cock pressing more firmly against her. She wiggled slightly, adjusting her position, and the movement sent sparks of sensation through his groin.

"Almost got it," she encouraged. "Just a little more..."

He pushed. She wiggled. His cock throbbed.

The lever suddenly gave way with a metal screech.

The lounger lurched. Claire yelped, falling backward. Instinct took over. Mike's hands shot out, catching her before she hit the ground. His palms landed on her waist, fingers curving around her hips, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts.

For one frozen moment, they were pressed together. Her back against his chest. Her ass against his cock. His hands on her body.

"Oh my!" She laughed, breathless. "You caught me! What a good boy!"

She didn't move away.

Neither did he.

He could feel her breathing, the rise and fall of her ribs beneath his hands. She was so warm. So soft. His cock was nestled against the cleft of her ass, and she had to feel it, had to know, but she wasn't moving, wasn't pulling away.

"I almost fell right on my bottom." Another giggle. She wiggled again, settling more firmly against him. "Thank goodness you have such quick reflexes."

Mike's hips twitched involuntarily, pressing forward. He couldn't stop it. His body had taken over, operating on pure instinct, seeking more contact, more friction, more.

"I should... you probably want to..." Words failed him.

"Want to what, honey?"

She turned her head slightly, looking up at him. From this angle, he could see down her bikini top, see the full swell of her tits, the dark pink of her nipples visible through the thin white fabric.

"Sit down," he finished lamely. "I should let you sit down."

"Oh, you're right." She stepped forward, his hands falling away from her waist. She turned to face him, the movement bringing her face close to his chest. "Thank you for catching me, sweetie. That was very gentlemanly."

"No problem." His voice cracked again. Fuck.

She reached out and patted his chest. Her palm was warm against his bare skin, resting right over his heart, which was hammering like a drum.

"You're shaking, baby. Are you okay?"

Was he shaking? He looked down at his hands. Yeah. They were trembling.

"Fine. Just. The heat."

"Mhmm." She didn't look convinced. "Well, I think I need to stretch. My neck is all kinked up from lying in that weird position."

She rolled her head, making a show of discomfort. A soft sound escaped her lips. Something between a sigh and a moan.

Mike watched her throat stretch, the tendons standing out, her head tilting back. Watched her reach up to rub at the juncture of neck and shoulder, fingers kneading.

"Ow," she murmured. "It's so sore."

"I could..." He stopped himself. Bad idea. Very bad idea.

But she looked at him with those big, hopeful eyes. "Could you what, honey?"

Too late to take it back.

"I could rub it. Your neck. If that would help."

Her face lit up. "Would you? Oh sweetie, that's so thoughtful! I would appreciate that so much."

Before he could second-guess himself, she was sitting down on the edge of the lounger, back to him, shoulders raised in expectation.

"Just right here," she said, tapping the base of her neck. "That's where it hurts the most."

Mike stepped forward. His thighs bracketed her hips as he stood behind her. His crotch was directly behind her head, maybe six inches away. If she leaned back...

"Go ahead, baby. Don't be shy."

He put his hands on her shoulders.

Her skin was like heated silk beneath his palms. Smooth, lotioned, slick with sunscreen and sweat. Mike's fingers pressed into the muscle at the base of her neck, kneading the way he'd seen in movies, the way his mom did it when his dad complained about his back.

"Oh god, yes, right there..."

Claire's voice came out breathy, low. The sound shot straight to Mike's cock, which was already straining against his shorts, mere inches from the back of her head.

"Is this okay?" he asked.

"More than okay, honey. You have such nice strong hands."

He dug deeper into the muscle, finding a knot beneath the surface. She moaned again, louder this time, and her head tilted back. The crown of her skull brushed against his stomach, close to, but not quite touching his erection.

"You're so good at this, baby. So good..."

Her voice had changed. Still sweet, still motherly, but with an edge underneath. Something husky that made his gut tighten.

He focused on the massage. Thumbs pressing circles into the tense tissue. Fingers wrapped around to the front of her shoulders, careful not to dip too low, too close to her chest. Professional. He was being professional.

Except he wasn't a professional. He was an eighteen-year-old virgin with a raging hard-on standing behind a woman in a barely-there bikini.

Claire let out a long, satisfied sigh. "You're so tense yourself, sweetie. I can feel it in your hands."

"I'm fine."

"No, no, you've been working so hard. Such a good boy, taking care of me."

Her head tilted back further. This time, it made contact. The back of her skull pressed against his stomach, and there was no way she didn't feel the bulge in his shorts now, no way she couldn't feel how hard he was.

But she didn't move away. Didn't acknowledge it.

"Let Mrs. Turner take care of you now," she said.

"What?"

Before he could process, she was turning around, standing up. Her tits swayed with the movement, right at his eye level for a split second before she stepped to the side.

"Sit down, honey. Right here."

She patted the lounger.

Mike's brain lagged behind his body. He sat. The cushion was warm from her skin, still indented where she'd been lying. He stared up at her, confused, cock straining visibly against the front of his shorts, completely obvious and completely ignored.

"Just relax, baby."

She moved behind him.

Her hands landed on his shoulders from above. Her body pressed against the back of his head, and he felt them. Her tits. Soft and full, squishing against his hair, the heat of her skin radiating through the thin bikini fabric.

"You're so tense," she murmured. "You need to relax."

Her fingers worked into his shoulders, kneading with surprising strength. Mike's eyes slid closed without permission. It felt good. Really good. Her hands were skilled, finding knots he didn't know he had, pressing into the muscle until the tension released.

But her tits. God, her tits. They were right there, pressed against the back of his head. Every breath she took shifted them, made them bounce slightly against his scalp. If he tilted his head back just a little, he'd be nestled right between them.

"That's it, sweetie. Let it go..."

Her hands slid lower. Down his shoulders. Over his chest. Her palms flattened against his pecs, fingers spread wide, and she rubbed in slow circles.

Mike's breath caught.

"Such nice muscles," she cooed. "I'm so impressed."

Lower still. Her hands trailed down his ribs, counting each one through his skin. Past his belly button. Stopping just above the waistband of his shorts.

His cock was right there. Straining. Obvious. ****.

Her fingers traced the elastic waistband. Back and forth. Not dipping below, but making him hyperaware of how close she was. How easily she could just slide her hand down, wrap it around him, give him what he needed.

"You're shaking again, baby." Her breath was warm against his ear. "Is Mrs. Turner making you nervous?"

"N-no." Complete lie.

"Good." Her hands moved away from his waistband, back up to his chest. He let out a breath. "Because there's nothing to be nervous about. We're just friends, aren't we?"

"Yeah. Friends."

Her hands moved down again. This time, they slid around his sides, hugging his waist, fingers splayed across his stomach. Her tits pressed harder against the back of his head. Her chin rested on top of his skull.

"Such a good friend, helping me with my chores." Her voice was soft, almost dreamy. "Such a good boy."

Mike's cock throbbed. A bead of pre-cum leaked from the tip, wetting the inside of his boxers. He could feel it, hot and slick against the sensitive head.

"I should..." He didn't know how to finish that sentence.

"Should what, honey?"

Her hands slid lower. Over his stomach. Toward his waistband. Past his waistband.

Her pinky finger grazed the bulge in his shorts.

Mike's hips jerked involuntarily.

"Oops!" Claire giggled. "Sorry, sweetie. My hands are slippery."

He wanted to die. Wanted to sink into the ground and disappear forever. His cock was so hard it ached, throbbing in time with his heartbeat, clearly outlined against the thin cotton of his shorts, and she'd just touched it.

Even if it was an accident.

Her hand came back. This time, her palm pressed flat against his lower stomach, fingers pointing downward. The tips of her fingers rested right at the edge of his waistband, millimeters from his cock.

"Poor baby," she murmured. "You're so tense down here too."

He couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Could only feel, her hands on his body, her tits against his head, her breath in his ear.

"Bodies get stressed sometimes." Her voice was matter-of-fact, like she was explaining basic biology to a child. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

Her fingers slid lower. Over his waistband. Onto his shorts. She was touching the fabric right above his cock, right where it strained against the cotton, and she had to feel it, had to know.

"Mrs. Turner just wants to help you relax."

Her hand pressed down.

Mike gasped. Actual sound leaving his mouth, embarrassing and ****.

"Shhh, it's okay, honey." Her other hand came up to stroke his hair, gentle and soothing. "Just breathe."

The hand on his shorts started to move. Sliding up and down, pressing lightly against his cock through the fabric. Not grabbing. Not stroking. Just... touching. Exploring.

"You're so hard, sweetie." Her voice held no judgment, only clinical observation. "Does that hurt?"

"Y-yes." It came out strangled.

"Poor thing." Her hand pressed harder, fingers curving around the outline of his shaft. "That must be so uncomfortable."

The pressure wasn't enough. Nowhere near enough. Mike's hips bucked, seeking more contact, and she pulled back.

"Stay still, baby. Let Mrs. Turner take care of you."

He went still. Rigid. Every muscle locked in place as she continued her exploration, fingers tracing the length of him through his shorts, mapping the shape, measuring the size.

"My goodness," she breathed. "You're a big boy, aren't you?"

Heat flooded Mike's face. He wanted to respond, wanted to say something clever or confident, but his brain had dissolved into static. There was only sensation. Her fingers on his cock. Her tits against his head. Her voice in his ear.

"I bet the girls love this." Her thumb brushed over the head, pressing into the wet spot forming there. "Do they, sweetie? Do the girls love your big cock?"

He'd never heard her talk like that. Never heard any woman talk like that, not in real life. The word sounded wrong in her motherly voice, dirty and forbidden.

"I don't... I haven't..."

She went still. "Haven't what, honey?"

His face burned hotter. "Had girlfriends. Not really."

"Oh." Understanding dawned in her voice. "Oh, sweetie. You haven't done this before?"

Done what? What were they doing? This was just a massage. A neighborly favor. This wasn't...

"It's okay, baby." Her voice was impossibly soft, dripping with fake sympathy. "Mrs. Turner will teach you."

Her hand slipped beneath his waistband.

Her fingers were cool against his overheated skin. Mike's breath stopped completely as her hand slid under the elastic of his shorts, beneath his boxers, wrapping around his bare cock for the first time.

"There we go," she murmured, like she was praising a pet for doing a trick. "Isn't that better?"

Better wasn't the word. It was agony. Her grip was loose, barely there, just enough contact to make him crazy but nowhere near enough to satisfy. She held him in her palm, not moving, just feeling.

"You're so warm, sweetie." Her thumb traced along the underside of his shaft, feather-light. "And hard. So very hard."

Mike's hips twitched. He couldn't help it. His body was moving on its own, seeking friction, seeking relief.

"Ah-ah." She squeezed gently, a warning. "Stay still for Mrs. Turner."

He **** himself to stop. Gripped the edges of the lounger with white-knuckled hands. Focused on breathing, in and out, in and out, while her fingers explored him.

She traced the ridge of his head. Circled the slit with one fingertip, smearing the pre-cum that welled there. Ran her thumb along the thick vein on the underside, from base to tip.

"Such a nice cock," she said conversationally, like she was commenting on the weather. "Mrs. Turner is very impressed."

Her hand moved. Finally. Slow strokes, barely there, not enough pressure to do anything but drive him insane. Up. Down. Up. Down. Her grip loosening and tightening in random patterns that kept him off-balance.

"Does this feel good, baby?"

He nodded. Didn't trust his voice.

"Use your words, sweetie. Tell Mrs. Turner."

"Yes." It came out cracked, ****. "Yes, it feels good."

"Good boy."

Her strokes remained maddeningly slow. His cock ached, balls tight with the need to come, but she wouldn't give him enough. Every time his hips tried to buck, to set a faster pace, she backed off, returning to that torturous crawl.

"You're so eager," she observed. Her tits were still pressed against the back of his head, soft and warm. "But good boys are patient, aren't they?"

He wanted to scream. Good boys? He didn't want to be a good boy. He wanted to come. Wanted to grab her hand and fuck into it until he exploded. Wanted to throw her down on this lounger and...

"Shhh." Her free hand stroked his hair, calming. "I can feel you thinking too hard. Just relax. Let Mrs. Turner handle everything."

Her hand tightened. The stroke came faster, firmer, and Mike's head fell back against her chest. His eyes rolled. His mouth opened in a silent groan.

Then she stopped.

"W-what..." he gasped.

"Patience, honey." Her hand released him entirely, pulling out of his shorts. The loss of contact was physically painful. "Mrs. Turner needs to get more comfortable."

She stepped away from behind him. His body felt cold where her warmth had been, cock throbbing in the open air, still trapped inside his shorts but **** for her touch.

She circled around the lounger, coming to stand in front of him. The sun was behind her, creating a halo effect, turning her blonde hair into gold. Her tits strained against the tiny bikini, nipples visibly hard through the thin fabric.

"Lie back, sweetie."

He obeyed. Shifted on the lounger until he was lying flat, legs stretched out, cock creating an obscene tent in his shorts. She looked down at him with an expression he couldn't read. Amused, maybe. Satisfied.

"That's better." She sat down on the edge of the lounger, right beside his hip. Her thigh pressed against his. "Now, let's see what we're working with."

Her hands went to his waistband. This time, she tugged. Shorts and boxers sliding down his hips, over his thighs, off his body entirely. She tossed them aside, and Mike was naked. Completely naked. In the middle of a backyard, in broad daylight, with his neighbor's wife staring at his cock.

"My goodness." Her voice held genuine surprise. "You are a big boy."

Mike's cock stood straight up, flushed red, pre-cum glistening at the tip. It throbbed under her gaze, twitching like it was waving for attention.

Her hand landed on his thigh. Not his cock. His thigh. Fingers tracing patterns on his skin, moving higher in tiny increments, getting close but never quite reaching.

"Mrs. Turner always takes care of her helpers." Her fingers danced along the crease where thigh met groin. "But you have to be patient. Can you be patient for me?"

He nodded frantically.

"Good boy."

Her fingers brushed his balls. Light. Teasing. She cupped them in her palm, rolling them gently, and his whole body jerked.

"So sensitive," she murmured. "Such a sensitive little thing."

Her hand moved up. Over the base of his cock. Wrapping around the shaft. Not stroking. Just holding.

"You really haven't done this before, have you?" She sounded delighted by the discovery. "Virgin cock. Mrs. Turner gets to be your first."

His first. She was going to be his first. Something about that penetrated the fog in his brain, sparked a distant alarm, but he couldn't hold onto it. Not when she was touching him. Not when her hand was finally, finally on his cock.

"I'm going to make you feel so good, baby." Her grip tightened. She started to stroke, slow and firm, the way he did it himself when he jerked off. But better. So much better. "Mrs. Turner knows exactly what little boys need."

He wasn't a little boy. He was eighteen. An adult. But the words made him feel small somehow, helpless, under her control. It should have bothered him. Didn't.

"That's it, sweetie. Just let it happen."

Her strokes picked up speed. Her other hand came down, cupping his balls, rolling them, tugging gently. The dual sensation made his eyes cross.

"You're leaking, baby." She swiped her thumb over the tip, gathering the pre-cum there, using it to slick her grip. "Your cock is so happy to see Mrs. Turner."

He was going to cum. He could feel it building, that tightness in his gut, that electric charge gathering at the base of his spine. A few more strokes and he'd be done, finished, cumming all over himself in his neighbor's backyard.

Her hand stopped.

"Not yet, honey." Her voice was gentle but firm. "You're not allowed to cum until Mrs. Turner says so."

He whimpered. Actual sound escaping his throat, high and ****.

"Shh." She patted his cock like it was a pet. "Good boys wait."

She stood up, leaving him on the lounger, naked and panting. Walked over to the small table and picked up the tube of sunscreen.

"We should make sure you don't burn, sweetie. You're so pink."

She squirted lotion into her palm. Came back to him. Started rubbing it onto his chest, his stomach, his thighs, everywhere except where he needed it most. Her hands slid over his skin, spreading the cool cream, and his cock bobbed with every touch, seeking attention it wasn't getting.

"There we go." She stepped back, admiring her work. "All protected."

He lay there, chest heaving, cock straining toward the sky. The sunscreen was drying on his skin, leaving a white film everywhere except his groin, which remained untouched, ****.

"Please," he tried again.

"Please what, baby?"

"Make me cum."

She laughed. Light and delighted, like he'd told a funny joke.

"Oh, honey. You're so adorable." She sat back down beside him, her hand returning to his cock. "Mrs. Turner will make you come. But only when you're ready."

"I'm ready. I'm so ready."

"No, sweetie." Her hand started moving again, that torturous slow stroke. "You're eager. That's different."

Her pace stayed constant. Slow enough to keep him on edge but not fast enough to push him over. Every time he got close, every time his balls started to tighten and his breath started to catch, she'd back off, slow down, bring him back from the brink.

"Such a good boy," she cooed. "Learning to wait. Learning to be patient for Mrs. Turner."

Minutes passed. Could have been hours. Time stopped making sense. There was only her hand on his cock, her voice in his ears, the endless building tension that had nowhere to go.

"You're doing so well, baby." Her thumb brushed over his tip, smearing fresh pre-cum. "Mrs. Turner is so proud of you."

He was crying. He realized distantly. Tears running down his cheeks from overstimulation, from frustration, from the sheer overwhelming need that had nowhere to go.

"Aww, honey." Her free hand wiped at his face. "Poor little thing. Is it too much?"

He nodded.

"Do you want Mrs. Turner to stop?"

He shook his head frantically.

"Then what do you want, baby? Tell me."

"Want to cum." His voice broke on the words. "Please, Mrs. Turner. Please let me cum."

She smiled.

"Since you asked so nicely," Claire murmured, "Mrs. Turner will let you cum."

Mike's whole body sagged with relief. Finally. Finally.

But she didn't speed up. Didn't grip harder. Her hand maintained that same maddening pace, slow and steady, and his relief curdled into fresh desperation.

"You said..."

"Patience, sweetie." Her voice held a teasing edge. "Mrs. Turner said she'd let you cum. She didn't say when."

His hips bucked involuntarily. She let him, this time. Let him fuck up into her hand, chasing the friction he needed. But every time he got close, every time that tightness started building, she'd loosen her grip just enough to take the edge off.

"Such a eager little cock." Her hand twisted on the upstroke, not the way the stories described, but something different, something that made sparks shoot behind his eyes. "It wants to cum so badly, doesn't it?"

"Yes. God, yes."

"But Mrs. Turner gets to decide." Her thumb pressed against the sensitive spot just below the head. Held it there. "Mrs. Turner's in charge."

He nodded. He'd agree to anything at this point. Sell his soul. Give her his bank account. Whatever she wanted, whatever it took, just please, please, please...

"Good boy."

Her hand started moving faster. Finally. Real strokes, firm and quick, the kind of touch that meant business. His balls tightened. His stomach muscles clenched. The orgasm he'd been chasing for what felt like hours started to build in earnest.

"That's it, baby." Her voice dropped lower, rougher. "Let it happen. Let Mrs. Turner see that pretty cock cum."

Close. So close. His vision started to white out. His whole body tensed.

She stopped.

"No!" The word ripped out of him, halfway between a shout and a sob.

"Shh." Her hand rested on his cock, not moving, just holding.

He was going to die. Right here, in this backyard, he was going to die from sexual frustration, and they'd find his body naked on a lounge chair with a raging hard-on, and that would be how he was remembered.

"Breathe, baby." Her other hand stroked his hair. "Calm down. We have time."

Time. He didn't want time. He wanted release. But he breathed anyway. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. The edge receded slightly. His heart rate dropped from dangerous to merely frantic.

"Better." She sounded pleased. "Now, let's try again."

Her hand started moving. Slower this time, building gradually. One stroke. Two. Three. Each one slightly faster than the last, slightly firmer, climbing toward a peak.

"You're going to cum for Mrs. Turner," she said, voice hypnotic. "When I say, not before. Understand?"

He nodded.

"When Mrs. Turner counts to three, you're going to cum. Not one second before, not one second after. Can you do that, sweetie?"

He had no idea if he could. His body had a mind of its own. But he nodded anyway.

"Good boy."

Her strokes picked up speed. Her grip tightened. The familiar tension started building again, faster this time, more urgent.

"One."

His balls drew up tight. His cock throbbed in her hand. Close. So close.

"Two."

The orgasm was right there, right at the edge, waiting to crash over him. He held it back. Somehow. Teeth gritted, hands fisted, every muscle in his body clenched against the release that was screaming to happen.

"Three."

He came.

Came harder than he'd ever come in his life. His cock pulsed in her hand, rope after rope of cum shooting out, hitting his chest, his stomach, dripping over her fingers. His vision went white. Sound stopped making sense. There was nothing but pleasure, overwhelming, consuming, endless.

Her hand kept moving. Milking him through it. Drawing out every last drop until his cock was twitching with oversensitivity, until he was whimpering and trying to squirm away.

"Oh my!" Her voice sounded distant, like it was coming from underwater. "Look at all that cum, sweetie. You made such a mess!"

He couldn't respond. Couldn't move. Could barely breathe. His body felt like it had been turned inside out, wrung dry, left as an empty husk on this stupid lounger.

"Poor baby." Her cum-covered hand came up to pat his cheek, leaving a sticky trail. "Did Mrs. Turner make you feel good?"

He nodded weakly.

"Use your words, honey. Did you like that?"

"Yeah." His voice was hoarse, wrecked. "Yeah, I liked that."

"Good boy." She stood up, wiping her hand on a towel. "Such a good boy for Mrs. Turner."

He lay there, staring up at the sky, cock softening against his thigh. His brain was starting to come back online, thoughts filtering through the post-orgasm haze.

That just happened.

His neighbor just gave him a handjob.

His mom's friend just made him cum.

"We should get you cleaned up, sweetie." Claire's voice broke through his spiraling thoughts. "You can't walk home covered in cum."

She disappeared into the house, came back with a washcloth. Started wiping down his chest, his stomach, his cock. The touch made him twitch, oversensitive, but she ignored his squirming.

"There we go. Good as new."

She handed him his shorts. He put them on robotically, movements slow and clumsy. His legs didn't want to work when he tried to stand. She caught his arm, steadying him.

"Easy, baby. Take your time."

He stood. Wavered. Found his balance.

"I should probably go." The words came out uncertain. What were you supposed to say in this situation? Thanks for the orgasm, see you next week?

"Of course, honey." She pressed something into his hand. Money. More than the usual twenty. At least three bills. "For being such a good helper."

He looked down at the cash. Looked up at her. She was smiling. That same grandmother smile she always wore, like nothing unusual had happened, like she hadn't just jerked him off in her backyard.

"Same time next week?" she asked.

He nodded. Because what else was he going to do? Say no?

"Perfect." She leaned in and kissed his cheek. Her lips were soft, leaving a faint impression of gloss. "Our little secret, sweetie. No need to tell anyone about our special time."

"Right. Secret. Yeah."

She walked him to the gate at the side of the house. Her hand rested on his lower back, guiding him, proprietary. His cum-sticky shorts clung to his thighs. The wet spot where his orgasm had soaked through was already starting to dry, stiff and uncomfortable.

"See you next week, honey." She opened the gate. "And drink lots of water! You worked so hard today."

He walked through the gate. Heard it click shut behind him.

The sidewalk stretched in front of him, normal and suburban, completely at odds with what had just happened. Neighbors mowing lawns. Kids riding bikes. The ordinary world carrying on while Mike Hall stumbled home with dried cum on his shorts and his neighbor's perfume still clinging to his skin.

What the fuck.

What the actual fuck just happened.

He walked. One foot in front of the other. His brain kept replaying it. Her hands on his cock. Her tits against his head. Her voice, sweet and condescending, calling him good boy like he was a pet she'd trained.

His cock, impossibly, started to stir again.

No. Absolutely not. Not right now. Not on a public sidewalk.

He walked faster. Home was only three blocks away. He could make it.

Behind him, if he'd turned to look, he would have seen Claire Turner watching from her porch. Arms crossed under those perfect fake tits. Smile playing at her glossy lips. Already planning next week's session.

But Mike didn't turn. Didn't look back. Just walked home with his head spinning and his shorts sticking to his thighs and the absolute certainty that his life had just gotten very, very complicated.

Same time next week.

He'd be there.

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