Life as a 18 year old male took a dramatic turn in my favor a couple days ago, and now I was hoping for another happy day.
Johnny Bestley and I were best friends from age 5, and living in the only two houses with young kids nearby, our lives were intertwined all throughout the year. Spring time we splashed in mud puddles; summer, swam, fished and explored in the creek; fall, played football, jumped in leaf piles and trick-or-treated; winter, played in the snow.
He also had a sister my age, Kari, who played with a girl who lived across the creek a ways, and in time she became the center of some of my teenage fantasies. Fantasies that only fueled a young boy's imagination as he dealt with the peculiarities of puberty.
Johnny's mom was another story: A raven-haired beauty with brilliant blue eyes and pretty white teeth. Of course, I never realized this until I was around age 14 and discovered the wonders of porn in the magazines my dad owned. The magazines often had stories of older women initiating younger men into the joys of sex. Once again, this became fodder for my budding fantasy life, but fears of screwing my life up or incurring the wrath of my dad kept any actions at bay for another two years. Instead I'd sneak magazines out to look at and jerk off to when he was at work. I'd imagine older women lusting for my dick and shoot a load into my hand.
The summer of my 16th birthday began the move toward events that signaled my entry into adulthood. First, I shot up to my full height which was about 6'1" and though I was still rather slim, the weight began to fill out my chest. Second, sweeping changes in the neighborhood happened as Johnny's folks bought a cottage at a lake outside of town. So much for having a friend to hangout with, most summer days the Bestleys were at the lake. If it wasn't for my job at the local supermarket and my 10-speed bike, they surely would have erected a monument in the cemetery that said, "Here lies a young man who lived a boring life."
Occasionally I was invited out to the cottage and relished those opportunities to see Kari in a bikini. Quite surprising to me, I began to look for glimpses of their mom in a rather attractive one piece suit that highlighted a shapely ass and a pair of tits that reminded me of the chest Victoria Principal sported in her glory years. Hence, the name Mrs. Breastley came into being. I too came discovering the joys of frequently masturbating to thoughts of feeling those tits. I, of course, envied the Bestleys, who seemed to "have it all" as in a beautiful family, a dad who made a ton of family and a cottage on a lake with great fishing.
The shock that followed two years later took sometime to adjust to. One day the family was all together, and the next, Mrs. Breastley moved into town ... alone. I later learned that Trophy Wife wasn't all she aspired to. While she wanted to go to college, her husband insisted he wanted her at home so they could have fun for the rest of their lives. Well, I guess a woman scorned is not a recipe for a good marriage.
Living just with my dad, the neighborhood was indeed quiet. Often I'd see Mrs Breastley driving into town in her colorful Pontiac convertible. I'd either be out mowing the yard working on my tan or at time riding the bike into town. I'd preferred the workout to driving and liked to work up a sweat. We became familiar enough in passing that we began to flirt with each other. I figured she was just figuring out what single life was like again, and teasing me for the fun of it. But, one day she surprised me and said I could call her Karen ... an evil smile then filled her face as she leered at my muscular legs and added,
"Unless you prefer to call me Mrs. Breastley."
I, of course, turned beet red, but she waved it off and said it was flattering to know a young stud could find an interest in an older woman. Mrs. Brea... Karen hardly looked old and I told her that. She was pushing 40 but still had a sleek body with curves in the right places of her 5'7" frame. And, she dressed like a woman who knew she was hot. Either short shorts and form fitting T-shirts or small, colorful sundresses and high heels that had me panting every chance I stole a look her way.
Coming up from the creek one day, I happened upon Karen in the backyard sitting up on a beach towel and rubbing her neck. I cleared my throat so as not to startle her, but I'm guessing she saw me coming up the stairs from "Down Below" as we called it.
"Hi Randy, how ya doin?" she asked.
I said I was good (and was thinking I might be soon great) and inquired about how she was. She groaned in frustration and said studying for her college classes would have to wait until she got the horrible crook out of her neck. She then asked how I was at massaging knots. Taking a look at the deep amber color of her skin, that contrasted nicely with the sky-blue bikini she wore and the long flowing hair falling down her graceful back I suddenly realized I had my own "knot" to contend with.
She invited me over, offered me a glass of wine (she couldn't stand the taste of beer) and handed me a bottle of coconut oil. "This oughta do, if you make a mess you can lick it off ... your fingers!"
I'm afraid the cut-offs I was wearing did little to hide the rising interest I had in what might lay ahead. Despite all these positive signs I was nervous as hell having never even seen first base with a girl before. I managed to drain the wine glass in one long pull which met her approval and a big, sexy smile as she cheered and gave me a refill.
"To hell with the drinking age for one afternoon Randy." She in turn finished the contents of her glass arching her back and thrusting her hot looking tits up and out. "Have I ever told you how much I like your name -- Randy -- I guess you could say I can definitely relate."
