Student's Summer Job

These events took place during the summer vacation at the end of my second year of university. The previous summer I'd taken a job with a local agricultural contractor -- I'd been at school with his son -- driving tractors towing trailer loads of silage, hay and grain. It'd been easy work, but long hours and often seven days a week; so I'd earned good money and had little opportunity to spend it.

I'd planned on doing similar this summer, but my parents put the kibosh on that by voicing a resounding 'No!'. Despite being almost twenty years old I couldn't fight their decision as those lost earnings wouldn't come close to matching the amount of money that my parents were pumping into my college education. Besides which, I'd only got myself to blame:

My first year at Uni had gone well, with year-end exam results placing me close to the top of every class. As a result I'd gone into my second year not only overconfident, but with a bank account full of beer money too. Having partied hard and cruised through my course work, this year's exam results told a very different story; I'd barely scraped through in a couple of subjects.

Even I could accept that a second, or perhaps even third rate degree was not going cut the mustard. So, no job of any sort this summer; I was to stay home, revisit my shortcomings in last year's work and get myself well prepared for my third and final one. I wouldn't have as much money for socialising, but with the time and effort I'd need to put in this year, I probably wouldn't need much.

For the most part I was studying in my dad's home-office, away from the distractions available in my own room and handy for my my mother to regularly (too often!) stick her head through the door, to ensure that I wasn't skiving-off. I could see that my parents were right, but it was still a ball-ache, not helped by the sound of Harry's tractors often rolling along the road past our house.

It was mid-July and my nose had been hard against the grindstone for three weeks. I'd started at 08:30 that morning and it was now nearly midday; lunch -- courtesy of my mother - would be another hour, but I wandered through to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. My mother would have gladly made that too, but I needed a break from my books and the computer screen.

Getting through the kitchen door proved a problem, the door handle didn't seem to work. It was abruptly wrenched free from the other side by my mother, accompanied by a snarl of "That bloody door again! It's forever sticking; I've been chasing your father to fix it for months."

"What's dad going to do about it? I doubt he'd even know where to find a screwdriver."

"Don't I know it! But you know what I mean; get a joiner or handyman organised to come and sort it out."

"Around here?" I raised my eyebrows and grinned as I spoke; the look of exasperation on my mother's face confirmed that she understood and agreed with my sentiments:

We live in a rural area, where there are relatively few skilled tradesmen around and those that there are concentrate their efforts on larger and better paying projects rather than the fixing of dodgy door-knobs. The clowns and cowboys who might take a look at it were incompetent and/or dishonest, most especially when it came to dealing with 'in-comers' like ourselves.

We'd been living here for fifteen years, but you're not counted as being a 'local' until at least the third generation. One regularly heard tales of extortionate invoices being presented for second rate work and there had been a few burglaries where suspicion -- though never any proof -- had been laid at the door of local odd-job men.

"Tell you what mum, you make me a coffee, while I get some tools from the garage and I'll have a look at it."

"You haven't time for fixing doors Paul, you need to be studying."

"Don't be daft, it'll probably not take me more than half an hour and I need a break from my books; my brain's boiling." I headed out of the door before mum could object further.

I perhaps spent forty minutes on the problem and though I couldn't fix it -- the latch itself was knackered; to be fair, it was probably a hundred years old -- but that time included my calling the builders merchant in town to order a suitable replacement and phoning dad to arrange for him to pick that up on his way home from work.

By then it was lunch time; where after it was back into the office for another afternoon poring over my books. Dad brought the new latch back that evening, which I installed in a further twenty minutes when I stopped for a coffee-break the following morning. Though hardly rocket-science, the completion of that task drew a round of applause from my attentive audience:

Besides my mother, there were a couple of her friends who had called in for coffee, so all three had sat watching. Once all three women had opened and closed the door a few times and voiced their approval, my mother reached for her handbag, pulled out her purse and said "There you go, a job well done." as she handed me £40.

"What? You don't need to pay me and especially not this much; it only took half an hour."

"We both know that it would've cost me at least twice as much for one of those local cowboys, if and when he ever bothered to turn up. Besides, it'll give you a bit of extra spending money for next year."

I couldn't and didn't argue with that. I thanked mum for her generosity, stuffed the notes into my pocket and bid the ladies a good morning as I picked up my coffee mug and headed back to my studies. I was half-way through the now working door when I heard "Can you fix shelves too Paul? The brackets on two of mine have come loose from the wall"

Turning back around, I saw it was Mrs Turner who'd spoken; she lived about five minutes walk down the lane. My mother had interjected before I could reply: "No, he can't. Paul's got to study, not spend his summer working as the village maintenance man."

"But I'll bet Paul could fix them in an hour. That idiot Harry Bell put them up and I've been chasing him for over six months to come back and sort them out; I'll happily pay you for doing it Paul

It was my turn to get in before my mother spoke: "Why not, if it's only a quick job it'll give me a much needed break from my studies. I need to get back to those now, but if you're going to be at home I'll pop down at lunchtime and see if it's something I can fix for you." Mrs. Turner gave a smile and a nod of agreement, whereupon I left before my mother could object.

It was good to get out in the fresh air for a few minutes at lunchtime, walking to and from Mrs. Turner's; she was right about Harry Bell being an idiot, it looked like he'd used the wrong and in some cases no, wall plugs. I was pretty sure there were some more suitable plugs and larger screws in the garage at home, so arranged to go fix them the following morning.

Fixing Mrs Turner's shelves proved as easy, quick and lucrative as replacing my mother's mortice latch; it also saw the start of my summer-job as a handyman. Word quickly spread amongst the area's ladies-that-lunch and I began to get a steady stream of enquiries for my services; those enquiries invariably coming via my mother.

Mum had come to agree that taking short breaks from my studies was beneficial; provided always that said interruptions were fairly local, short in duration and only for friends of hers. An hour or so each day was deemed acceptable, but if a job took half a day, then no more were allowed for the following few days; to be honest that suited me too; I really did need to get my studies up to date.

It was lucrative too, all in cash and with dad invariably picking-up the tab for any materials or tools that I needed. I'd look at a job one day, order anything I needed from the merchants, once dad had collected those I'd do the work the following day. I learnt some new skills too; there were few jobs that I couldn't handle given a few minutes watching YouTube videos beforehand.

It was just short of four weeks later that things became even more lucrative: I got a message from mum: "It sounds like Tessa Ronson's been trying to hang another picture; I told her that you'd go around at about 11:00 in the morning."

Visiting Mrs. Ronson would be no hardship; she lived in an old farmhouse about two miles away. Besides paying generously for my services the last time -- I'd repaired the wall plaster where Tessa had tried to nail in a picture hook and then screw-fixed the picture-hook -- she'd provided a very acceptable view while I'd been doing the job; 'Trophy Wife' was the appellation which sprang to mind.

Tessa Ronson was probably no more than a year or so younger than my mother, but she could pass for ten years younger; while her husband Sam was close to sixty and looked it. A slim and very tall redhead, who guessing from her accent was perhaps South African by birth? Rumour was that prior to becoming Mrs. Ronson, Tessa had been a croupier (or perhaps hostess?) in a London Casino.

I was on my way soon after ten o'clock the following morning; eager to discover if Tessa was wearing the same white polo shirt and matching shorts -- anyone for tennis? - that she'd been dressed in on my last visit. I was a good half-hour early when I knocked on her front door, a packet of polyfilla/spackle in my other hand and a bucket holding tools sat on the doorstep beside me.

When Tessa answered the door there was no tennis outfit to be seen, but I wasn't complaining, indeed I wasn't saying anything; words were beyond me. Today, Tessa was wearing a camisole top with a very low-cut neckline, a skirt that didn't even come close to reaching her knees and a pair of high-heeled sandals which all but screamed 'fuck-me!'

I struggled to keep my eyes focused, where should I look next? For the most part it was Tessa's cleavage that held my attention. The absence of any straps and a prominent nipple display suggested there was no bra beneath that camisole top, but Tessa's tits still sat high and handsome. Two kids and in her forties, Tessa surely must've had a boob-job?

Even when Tessa spoke, I found it hard to keep up my head and maintain eye-contact: "You're already tooled-up Paul, I'd expected you just to be coming round to check things out; I'm not sure you're going to need any of those today."

"Mum told me it was another plaster repair that needed doing; I thought I'd get straight onto it."

Tessa paused reflectively for a few moments and then laughed before responding. "Mmm, I think Jenny's misunderstood me... But that's perhaps for the best. Come on in and I'll explain what I want; you can leave your bucket out here for now."

Tessa turned away from the door, but I paused before following. Short as that skirt was to begin with, as Tessa spun around, she revealed that it had long splits up either side of it too; it was little more than two flaps hanging from her hips. It took my attention away from her tits at least; Tessa's arse resembled two ferrets, fighting inside a sack.

I followed Tessa through the hallway and into the lounge, though not too closely... I sought to maintain the best view of those fighting ferrets, while remaining close enough to get the optimum view of Tessa's thighs when she next changed direction. Fuck me! Even by her usual high standards Tessa Ronson was looking fuckable today... Prime MILF!

Once in the centre of the lounge Tessa turned around to face me -- that second twirl was all that I'd hoped, every bit as revealing as the first -- a playful smile dancing on her lips and in her eyes. "So what did Jenny tell you I needed doing; did she actually say it was another picture-hanging disaster?"

"I don't remember exactly... I'm sure it was something about filler in the wall and to take a screwdriver."

Tessa's smile was replaced by tinkling laughter. "I was being naughty... Teasing your mother and probably recklessly so too; in hindsight it's perhaps a good job that she did get the wrong end of the stick."

I remained silent. Like my mother before me, I was confused by Tessa's ambiguity; but I was also back to leering at her gorgeous tits -- that burst laughter had set them to jiggling -- so I wasn't as clear-headed as I might have been. Never mind, having allowed me a few more seconds to gawp at her tits, Tessa clarified things for me:

Tessa's hand swept across the front of he skirt, grasped the hem and lifted it to reveal her panties; or at least she would've done, had there been any panties there to reveal. "This is the hole that I need filling Paul..." That certainly tugged my eyes away from Tessa's cleavage; the lush pelt matched her hair, a veritable burning-bush between her thighs.

The revelation lasted only for a few seconds until Tessa released her skirt allowing it to drop back down. But by then the image had been seared into my retinas and I continued to stare at the softly swaying fabric; so deeply engrossed that I almost missed Tessa's concluding statement "Though it seems that you're more interested in these."

Without a moment's hesitation, Tessa grasped the hem of her camisole top, peeled it off and casually cast it aside. My eyes were out on stalks! I was probably open-mouthed and wide-eyed too. I'd been right about Tessa wearing no bra, but those nipples were beyond even my imaginings: Full, fat and pink, but also pierced with little gold barbells. No wonder they were so prominent.

Tessa allowed me a few seconds of silent admiration before lifting her hands to catch each barbell in her fingers. "Do you like them? They were my present to Sam on his birthday..." Tessa then twisted each barbell sharply -- far harder than I would've dared -- and issued a primal growl as her nipples twisted along with them.

Tessa then repeated the action; she twisted her nipples in the opposite direction, but that primal growl was just the same. On releasing her tortured nipples Tessa's face broke into a wicked smile; her nipples seemed to have swollen even more and were now an angry red. "Actually, I cheated with that present; it was for me as much as it was for Sam... Would you like to try Paul?"

I answered in the affirmative, but only by way of an eager nod; I was beyond speech. Movement too for that matter and it was Tessa who closed the space between us, lifted my hands to her nipples and for the first evolution, even provided the motive force. I was again staggered by how savagely Tessa twisted her nipples, so I wasn't surprised by it drawing third primal growl.

I shared Tessa's second wicked grin and then got with the programme, twisting Tessa's nipples as fiercely as she'd done herself. Though for the most part I assailed Tessa's nipples individually, thereby providing the opportunity to caress and kiss each breast better in its turn; Tessa seemed to enjoy that contrast as much as I did.

Tessa's breasts were everything that they'd promised and whilst I'm no expert on such matters, I found no evidence that they were in any way surgically enhanced and believe me, over the next few minutes, I examined Tessa's breasts thoroughly. The lady herself had not been idle; I'd felt Tessa's hands working at my belt and the fastenings of my jeans.

Only when Tessa pushed those and my boxer shorts down to my knees, did I discover that she'd been even busier than I'd thought. In the moment my cock sprang free and bounced upward, its tip struck and then brushed through that fiery and noticeably damp bush between Tessa's legs; her skirt had gone too. It was now my turn to release a primal growl.

My concentration wavered in the moment, giving Tessa the opportunity to squirm free of my grip and pull away from me; her wicked smile was back in place, so I'd few concerns at to this being a protracted separation. Tessa's skirt was around her ankles, she kicked free of that and now naked save for those fuck-me sandals, skipped away.

Dropping onto the couch with her legs opening wide in invitation, Tessa beckoned me to follow, advising "I can't wait a second longer; fuck me on here."

With jeans still around my knees, I followed a little slower and less elegantly; I wasn't risking having Tessa change her mind while I spent time in taking them off.

Tessa's smile was still in place, suggesting that any risk had been small; even that was removed when she caught hold of my waving cock as I arrived and gasped "A lovely size Paul; I'd thought it looked to be... Just what I need."

In the next moment I was sinking to my knees and shuffling forward between Tessa's splayed thighs. I'd guessed that Tessa wasn't needing or indeed wanting any foreplay; her hand still grasping my prick and guiding it unerringly towards her pussy adequately attested to that. Having entered Tessa's welcoming portal I continued moving forward; my full length sank into her on that first penetration.

In that instant we -- for the first time -- voiced our primal growls in stereo; Jesus but Tessa felt wet, slick and unbelievably hot in there. That said, the ease with which I'd speared into Tessa suggested she wasn't especially... tight. The lady corrected me on that mistake during my second penetration, when the walls of her cunt closed around me like a fleshy vice.

There was nothing exceptional or even very special about our coupling; I leant well forward to ensure my shaft dragged firmly across Tessa's clitoris with each stroke, but beyond that, it was just a straightforward fuck. I utilised forceful, steady, almost monotonous thrusts throughout; I know my limitations... Any faster and I'd have shot my load within seconds.

Even so, I doubt that Iasted above a couple or three minutes; it seemed to hit the spot though, for Tessa as well as myself. Tessa's words in incitement and endorsement of my performance were lewd, crude and delivered by way of raunchy, salacious snarls; my mother would've had a conniption fit if she'd heard them, then again, I doubt she would've been best pleased anyway.

I felt my climax boiling up, but couldn't do a damned thing to delay it; I'm guessing that Tessa sensed its approach too. Tessa's legs lifted from the floor, wrapped and locked tight around my arse as she growled "Just let it go Paul... inside me; it's safe." A second or so later, either triggered by my ejaculation, or maybe she'd been holding it off, Tessa exploded in her own powerful and protracted orgasm.

I slumped forward in my own climax, my head falling onto Tessa's chest; I could feel that heaving as she gasped for breath and her heart racing within. That slouch had put one of Tessa's barbell adorned nipples barely an inch from my lips; it would've been rude to ignore it. I bit it hard; Tessa grasped my hair and pulled me down tighter as she squealed with delight.

We were laid there for a couple more minutes before Tessa pushed me away and pulled herself upright on the couch; I could see my semen trickling from her cunt and dripping onto the seat cushion. "You Paul are a wicked boy... Just the sort that I like best. But if you're not home before long your mother may come looking for you and that would never do."

I grinned in response before replying. "I could always come back tomorrow; finish off the job properly; maybe a rub-down and apply a lick... of paint?"

"A very wicked boy; I'm liking you better and better. Shall we say ten o'clock, in case things take a little longer than you expect? Now go! I don't want us being caught in flagrante."

I quickly pulled up and refastened my pants, then silently watched as Tessa finished re-dressing too; I couldn't prevent a sigh of disappointment when Tessa's cute tits disappeared. I didn't try to kiss Tessa, or say anything about what we'd just done, guessing that wasn't what she'd want; instead I grunted a brusque "OK, ten o'clock tomorrow." And turned for the door.

I was pulling it open when I heard "Haven't you forgotten something Paul?..." My heart skipped a beat, had I guessed wrong about that kiss? I turned with a feeling of trepidation to find a smiling -- that wicked one again -- Tessa holding out a sheaf of bank notes. "...I still need to pay you."