My sexual adventures with Mrs Ronson had broadened my outlook significantly and given me greater confidence with elder women though not, unfortunately, with girls of my own age. Without that confidence, the following events would not have taken place, so I am included this true story in with the Mrs Ronson series, although she does not appear within this. The fact is that, without my experiences with Mrs Ronson, what happened between me and Teresa simply would not have taken place.
Teresa was an old friend of my mother's. Not an old school friend, but an old friend that she had known since we had moved into our house about twelve years ago.
Teresa was older than my mother but not a lot older. During the time that we had known her, her husband had died, I believed, though he may have just walked out on her. She had been on her own for at least six years at the time of my story, but I really knew very little about Teresa. I thought that Mom knew her through her book group.
Up until the events of the story, I had only ever seen Teresa when she would visit Mom at home, just for a coffee. I called her Teresa because Mom called her Teresa. I only knew her as Teresa and did not know her surname. I had no reason to know anything more about her and, generally, I was not interested in knowing more. I had always thought of her as a 'serious' type of person and, at my age, that was not my sort.
Although I knew nothing more about Teresa, I found out that she lived alone, not far away from our house. I discovered this when Mom asked me if I could go over and cut down an overhanging branch for Teresa, in her back garden. It seemed that Mom had offered my services to her friend, possibly because of similar jobs that she believed that I was doing for Mrs Ronson.
I had no intention of disillusioning Mom about what I was doing for, and to, Mrs Ronson.
It is strange, when I think about it, that I always knew Mrs Ronson as Mrs Ronson and only ever addressed her as such, despite the intimacy of our relationship, and knowing that her first name was Eileen. I only knew Teresa as Teresa.
So it was that one morning I turned up at Teresa's front door with a woodsaw.
Teresa opened the door wearing a light blue housecoat. I had not thought about Teresa in any particular way before and this was really the first time that we had been alone together, so I started to notice her as a woman.
I couldn't just stare at her, of course, but she offered me a glass of water which I accepted because it was a warm day and we made some polite conversation, which was a novelty because I don't think we had exchanged anything more than a couple of sentences before. I noticed her red hair cropped close to the head with ringlets, a nicely curved bow of an upper lip above a lower lip of pleasing fullness. She must have been in her late 40s but she looked good for her age.
No obvious make-up, which probably means not excessive. If make-up is not plastered on, I hardly ever notice it. Ever.
The housecoat came down to her mid-thigh. Although I could not see through it, the way that her body filled it out told me that she probably had a slim figure with a pair of modestly average sized breasts.
I had also not seen her before standing beside me. My usual encounters with Teresa had been her sitting down with Mom, usually drinking coffee. She was not as tall as I had imagined, standing at about five foot five, a few inches shorter than myself.
I finished the water and Teresa led me into the back garden, which gave me further opportunity to watch her move and deduce more about the body under the housecoat. She moved lithely, the housecoat only tightening across her breasts and fitting loosely until what appeared to be the swell of a nicely rounded bottom lower down. She clearly did not have much surplus weight and I did not think there was much under the housecoat, probably just a bra and panties, her legs were bare. I like a nice round bottom.
I could see why the branch had become a problem. there was too much weight there anyway and it was only a matter of time before it broke off and came down itself, possibly damaging a nearby fence in the process. I tried to cut it into four equal sections, but I then had to trim off the smaller branches to bring them all to a manageable size for disposal.
It must have taken a bit over an hour, I suppose, then I made my way back to the house and the kitchen where Teresa was standing at the sink.
"All done, Teresa," I said, "I've stacked the wood at the base of the tree, I didn' know what you wanted to do with it."
"Thank you, Danny, I don't know what I want to do with it, either. I'll have to think about it.
"Oh, Danny, you're covered in sawdust. "
I looked down. Indeed, I was.
"I'm sorry, Teresa, I just didn't notice."
"Never mind, Danny, I'm sure it will just brush off," and then she started brushing the sawdust from the front of my trousers with her hand.
Oh my God. I let her do it, although I knew what was likely to happen. I think she just started brushing the sawdust away without thinking and I just let it happen because I was unprepared to do anything else.
Of course, the inevitable happened and Teresa suddenly realised that while she was brushing the sawdust away from the front of my jeans, she was also stroking my cock through the material. Needless to say my cock realised that before even I did and started to rise to the occasion.
"Oh," she said, lamely, stopping suddenly and pulling her hand away, "maybe you had best finish doing that."
Without my experiences with Mrs Ronson, I think I would just have left it at that but I now had what I considered to be some insight into older women and what were sometimes quite complex patterns of desire.
I have to say those insights occasionally led me into unwise and unfortunate courses of action, but not on this occasion.
"That felt nice," I said.
"I expect that it did, Daniel, but I don't think we need to discuss it."
I noticed how the informal "Danny" had changed to "Daniel", a more formal address. I was unsure what that meant although I guessed that there was an implied message that we should be dealing with this situation like responsible adults. However, I saw it as an acknowledgement that she had felt my stiffening cock through the material of my jeans and, more important, that she knew she had made it happen. And that made it feel even stiffer. I knew that she knew that I knew that she had been stroking my cock, and she didn't want to talk about it.
I didn't feel uncomfortable, at all, talking about it. One of the things I thought that I had learned from Mrs Ronson was that talking through a situation often felt better and worked out better than shying away from it.
"I'm sorry, Teresa, but it did feel nice and, although I do feel embarrassed having you see me like this, it still feels good.
"I'm sorry," I said again.
"No, Daniel, you haven't done anything wrong, so you shouldn't feel that way. I should have known better, but I didn't realise that a young boy like you would have physical feelings like that for me.
