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!"
