My upbringing was fairly repressed. Sex was dirty. Guys were perverts. Nice girls said no. So don't ask, don't look, don't touch, and don't even think about it until you're married.
Of course, like any other red-blooded guy, it was almost all I could think about from the minute I first laid my eyes on a discarded Playboy magazine. It was a frequent topic of conversation among my young friends. And, as the years passed, I was as committed to touching any part of the female anatomy - and having it touch back - as any man on the planet.
My ambitions aside, with the exception of a couple of poorly executed blowjobs and some uncomfortable finger fucking, my experiences as a young man were few. My first year of college afforded me a few bumbling opportunities to improve my skills, but honesty forces me to admit that I was far from a good fuck. And I had yet to experience one from a girl who knew much more about it than I did.
I worked a couple of jobs the summer after that year. One was in a modestly-sized family-owned department store. The owner rolled in once a week to spend an hour in the office signing checks, firing people, complaining about litter on the street, and generally being a prick. He was old, bald, stoop-shouldered with a face painted with a permanent sneer. A thin man with a perpetual bow tie, he looked like something from a cartoon. Fortunately, I had little interaction with him. Unfortunately, my superiors were always in a foul mood by the time he left.
I was taking down promotional signs from a big 4th of July sale, safely in the back corner of the store, when I heard the whispers that he was in the building. I kept my head down, did my job, and didn't worry about him. In fact, when I got the word I was keeping an eye on two women who were shopping in the area where I was working.
One had a nice pair of tits snugly fitted into her tank top. From my perch on the ladder, I had a pretty good view of her impressive cleavage. The other wore a pair of shorts that could have been painted to her ass. I was craning my neck back over my shoulder when I heard the tapping of high heels coming toward me. I spun around so quickly that I nearly lost my balance on the ladder, trying not to be clocked checking out the hot young customers.
The woman that was approaching was blonde, tall, and absolutely stunning. She could have been a model. Her hair was perfectly styled. Her makeup looked like it was done by a professional. She wore a fashionable full-length raincoat, unbuttoned, revealing long legs that disappeared into a pencil skirt that fell just higher than the middle of her thigh. Her button-up shirt revealed a hint of ample cleavage. She never broke her stride as she walked passed me, looking up with a sly smile on her face. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Getting caught is one thing. Getting caught by a woman that looked that good was another thing entirely.
An hour later she was still in the store. I saw her from behind. Her raincoat was now draped across her forearm and I could see that she looked just as good from this side as she did from the front. Two toned ass cheeks pushed against the fabric of her slim skirt. Her calves suggested she may have been a dancer. Either that, or the heels just worked some magic on those long legs. She turned around the corner and out of my sight fairly quickly but like any horny young man, I was making mental notes very quickly. She was, perhaps, in her mid 20's. confident and poised. She walked with purpose even though it was clear she had no particular destination in mind.
"You know who that is, right?" Dave asked as he chewed his sandwich. We often compared notes at lunch about the women who had been in the store. I shrugged, shaking my head.
"It's the old man's wife."
I was confused. "The old man" is how we referred to the owner of the store. He was 80 going on 120. There was no way in hell that he would have a wife that looked like that. Or, more to the point, there was no way that a woman that looked like that would subject herself to somebody like him.
Dave nodded, unable to speak with half a sandwich in his mouth. I waited for him.
"Obviously she's after his money. Like the rest of us, she's just waitin' for him to kick off. In the meantime, she follows him around like his personal show pony, lookin' like that and makin' the rest of us hate him just a little bit more. It's a shame though. Imagine having a woman like that and not being up to the task, if you know what I mean."
I knew what he meant. And just thinking about it had me rising to the occasion even with the sites and sounds of Dave's assault on his sandwich. I turned my attention to my own food and a three-month-old copy of Sports Illustrated that someone had left in the break room weeks before.
A week passed and I looked forward to the Old Man's visit, hoping his wife would be with him. I saw him walking into the office area but she was nowhere in sight. Who could blame her? She was completely out of place in a store like that. I'm sure she would work up any excuse she could not to come with him. But I was still disappointed. At least for a while.
About a half hour before going home someone told me that my manager was looking for me. I found him in his office, shuffling papers and trying to look busy before bolting for the door as quickly as possible at the end of the day.
"You wanted to see me?
"Yeah," he said, grabbing a scrap of paper off his desk and thrusting it toward me. "Your working at Mr. Lindstrom's house tomorrow. Here's the address. Be there at 9:00."
"At his house?"
"Yeah, he probably needs some weeds pulled or his gutter cleaned or some shit moved to the attic. It happens a couple of times a year and tomorrow it's happening to you. Don't worry about it. You'll most likely be done in a few hours and you get paid for the day. Just don't fuck it up."
I arrived the next morning at 8:56. The old man was standing at the front door, scowling, as I pulled into the drive. Apparently, he was one of those "if you're not early, your late" people. I tried to smile and put on my best friendly face as I approached, but he was already through the door waving me in through the large foyer.
"The garage is through that door. You'll find some boxes that need to be moved to the storage building out back. Just put them on any open shelves, but keep them together. And don't drop them, you hear me? When you've finished, ask my wife what else she needs. She's out back."
And with that, he stepped out of the hall, shutting a door firmly behind him. So much for personality.
I found the boxes and grabbed the first one. I could see the storage building through an open door that led to the large backyard. A sidewalk lined with flowers divided the perfectly manicured lawn and led to the door of a building that looked more like an oversized dollhouse than a shed. Not that it was small. It was the flower boxes beneath the windows and the contrasting trim color that were reminders that the rich live differently than the rest of us. I put the box at the base of a series of empty shelves and turned to head back to the garage for the next one.
That's when I saw her. She was reclined on a chaise lounge next to the pool. At first glance, I thought she was naked. She was, in fact, wearing a small bikini that was cut so high on her thigh that it was nearly invisible from my vantage point. I tried not to stare as I made my way up the walk, back toward the house. She wore large aviator sunglasses, and her face pointed directly to the sky, so I felt that she was unconcerned by my presence.
With each successive trip to the garage, I took in more of her gorgeous frame. One leg was bent, the other outstretched. They looked even longer than I remembered. Her breasts were full and the skimpy fabric of her turquoise blue bikini top did little to conceal them. At some point she rolled over on her tummy, allowing me to take in the view of her firm, rounded ass, barely covered at all by the fabric of the suit. I tried to memorize every curve, every detail, every curl of her blonde mane; because I knew I would be seeing her in my fantasies later tonight.
With the last box delivered and hoping my growing erection wouldn't be obvious to her, I made my way around the edge of the pool toward her chair. She was on her back again, those glorious breasts edging out of their cloth restraints on every side. She never moved as I approached. I stood over her - doing everything I could not to stare at that body - for an awkward moment before speaking.
I tried to say something, but no words came out. I cleared my throat and started over.
"Um, your husband said I was supposed to ask you if you wanted anything else."
Her head turned only slightly. "Yes, there is something else. My husband should be in his study."
I waited a beat.
"Go there. I'll be in in a minute."
I nodded, slightly confused. Why was she sending me to him when he clearly told me that she would determine whether or not there was another task?
I tapped on the door that had nearly slammed in my face earlier.
"Yes?" The voice was expectedly gruff.
