An ongoing illustrated erotic story…
Darren is my son Richard’s best friend. He is seventeen and has shoulders like you wouldn’t believe and not an ounce of fat on him.
Such a sweet kid, too. I’ve known him since he was about fourteen and him and Richard would play football in the back yard and I noticed the smile he had and the way he always called me Mrs Robbins, or Ma’am, and was ever so polite and cute.
Then he hit sixteen and the adult body started to kick in and his jaw got a little wider, and all of a sudden, every time he came anywhere near me, my stomach started to hurt. In that way.
After a while, I think he noticed I liked him. Lately, he started coming round on Thursdays, all innocent, still with that boyish smile, but with a young man’s face.
‘Is Richard here?’ he’d ask.
‘No, sweetie. He has basketball on Thursdays.’
‘Oh yeah, I keep forgetting. Oh well, now that I am here, would you like any help with anything round the yard, Mrs Robbins?’
‘Sure, thanks. You can clear out all that dead wood from the plane tree, and I’ll fix you a lemonade.’
It was all pretty innocent that first time, but he came round the next Thursday and I was ready for him. A low cut top and high cut denim shorts did the trick. He got in lot of good looks at me, and I could see his thick cock in his jeans as he did some pruning and I stood beneath him and told him just where to cut. We both knew exactly what was going on. I thought about it all evening.
The third Thursday, he helped me wash the car. And I went all out for the wet t-shirt thing. So sue me.
‘Hi cutie. Richard is out, remember?’ I said as he came into the yard, right when I thought he’d show up.
‘Oh yeah, basketball. Anyway, you want some help?’
‘Sure. I love it when you help me out,’ I said.
‘No problem. You look nice today, Mrs Robbins’.
‘Thanks. I’m kinda clumsy, though.’ I point to my t-shirt.
‘Oh, you can hardly notice.’ He smiles, not so innocntly, and I giggle. I can see his cock again.
‘You’re such a sweet kid,’ I say. ‘Although I guess you aren’t much of a kid any more. Are you?’
‘Actualy that reminds me,’ he said. ‘I have a birthday coming up real soon. Eighteen.’
‘Age of consent, huh?’ (We live in Florida, right? Otherwise I might have had him already. But he was a sweet kid, good mannered, traditional CoC parents, and I knew he’d be worth the wait.)
‘Yeah. In a few weeks I can do what I want,’ he said, grinning.
‘I bet you’re looking forward to that,’ I said. (I knew I sure was.)
‘Yeah, it’s gonna be great. Hey, let me finish this. Why don’t you take a rest? It’s hot out, Mrs Robbins.’
‘You’re so great,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
So I spend the rest of the afternoon lying there watching him polish my car, flirting, making small talk, watching his ass, his shoulders, fantasising about his incredible stomach. My pants ended up as wet as my shirt. OK, not quite, but it sounds good.
And after he’d done, he agreed to let me have him round for dinner when he turns eighteen. It’s in a few weeks time.
Anyway, you can say all you want about using cliches, milfs in wet t-shirts and all that, but they sure did work, and if you had the crappy life I have had, you might go for a few cliches too if they worked out in your favour.
And take my word for it: that kid is getting a whole lot of yours truly for his eighteenth birthday.