The Boy Across the Street

Now, right from the start, let’s get the details over and done with.

My name is Jan, well, Janet actually, but let’s stick with Jan as everybody else does.

I’m fifty-two at the time of writing, but was fifty when the events I shall relate took place.

I am five feet six inches tall. Buxom, in fact very buxom, but its all firm. Nothing flops about, including my bosom – 40 C if you want to know, but then, I don’t often wear a bra because I like to show off my nipples. I’ve got very nice, strong legs, sturdy but not thick, if you know what mean, but after all, its what’s at the top of them that counts, isn’t it?

I’ve been married to Tom for thirty odd years. He’s about five years older than me, and gave up getting intimate with me about ten years ago. We’re a bit of a laugh when seen together because he’s a couple of inches shorter than I am and thin with it.

I once overheard some horrible male say to another after seeing the pair of us; “It’d be like a pimple on an elephant when those two are at it.”

Well, we are no longer “at it,” but in early days, Tom did manage to sire three kids on me, and that currently leaves me with four grandchildren.

I didn’t mention my face, did I? It’s a bit hard to assess one’s own face, but I think it looks okay. I’ve got wide set brown eyes that I enhance by having my hair dyed blonde. I always think brown eyes and blonde hair look good together, don’t you?

I have a sort of snub nose and what I believe is called, a “full mouth.” Talking of “full”, I’ve always taken great care of my teeth, so I’ve got a really nice set of white “pearlies”, all my own.

That takes care of the personal stuff so now let me give you the setting.

I live in a nice suburb of the city, you know, good neighbours, nice gardens and trees along the street.

In the house opposite ours lives a widow, Stella, and her son, Steve. Steve was about twenty-two at the time I’m telling you about.

When we first moved in Steve was about seven years old. I watched him grow up, and he turned out to be what I think is called these days, a “real hunk.” If that means he is a nicely shaped, sexy looking young man, then that’s what I mean. I used to think, “My God, if I were twenty-five years younger I’d have his shoes under my bed.”

Stella’s husband, Dan, died of cancer when Steve was about sixteen. He was a nice fellow, and Steve looks just like him, that is, before Dan was wasted away with cancer.

I suppose Dan’s death could have embittered Steve, because he got on well with his father, but it didn’t. He sort of became serious, and took on the job of being the “man of the house,” looking after his mum, doing the gardening, and so on.

I don’t know what Steve did about sex, but I never saw him with any girls, but I’m sure he would have had no trouble getting them with his body and looks. I thought perhaps that he just kept them well out of his mother’s sight.

Steve turned out to be a bit of a computer whiz – went to university and did a computer course that started out with say, a hundred students and ended with ten, it was so tough. Steve was still there at the end. When he graduated Stella held a party for him, and the whole street went to it.

It was at that party I first noticed something strange. No, I lie, I had an inkling that something was happening some time before the party, and in fact, it first came to my attention when Steve was about seventeen. But it was at the party that it really became clearer to me.

There were plenty of local girls at the party, some of them quite pretty, but Steve almost ignored them. I began to wonder if he was gay, but he didn’t latch on to any of the fellows either, and some of them were pretty too.

It was me he glued himself to. You know, getting me drinks and food, and chatting away. He hardly left my side all evening.

Even though I got a bit wet between the legs with him so near and attentive, I told myself that he was opting for safety with a woman about the same age as his mum.

Talking of his mum, it reminds me, it was that night of the party when she came over to speak to me, she told me that Steve was not going to go after a job with some company, but was going to start his own little business working from home.

Now, don’t ask me the in and outs of it because, although I now have a computer, what goes on inside that box thing is a mystery to me.

Anyway, Steve was going to be doing something with or about computers working from home. Stella showed me the front room that they were going to make into an office or workshop, or both – something like that. That room looked straight across the street to our house.

Steve started his little business and I noticed computers coming and going, so he seemed to be doing all right. I also noticed something else.

Steve had a sort of desk and workbench by the window. Every time I appeared I could see him working, and I could also see he looked up at me, and kept looking up as long as I was in sight.

At first, it was disconcerting having a pair of male eyes focused on you whenever you were out the front. I wondered what the attraction was. Then I fell in, I was the attraction. “My God,” I thought, “I do believe that boy fancies me.”

Then I began to recall how for some years, as I said before, he seemed to be interested in me. I’d taken no notice of his stares and how, if I were in the front garden, he would come across and chat with me, and seemed to take an inordinate interest in my breasts. Mind you, he wasn't the only one with that particular hobby.

Again, I must say, that despite my fancy for the horny youth, I put his mammary fascination down to “growing up,” whatever that means.

Now that I seemed to capture Steve’s attention every time I appeared out the front, I let myself think that this would pass eventually, but it didn’t. The result was, I began to enjoy his attention, and started to get evil thoughts about that young man.

My husband Tom did nothing around the house, including nothing in the garden. It was all left to me. And when Tom wasn’t at work, he was mainly off to play golf with his mates.

You could say that the flower of romance had wilted where Tom was concerned. As for me, I was fond of him and had no desire to part from him, but I had been left with quite a hole in my life – no pun intended, although he certainly left that hole empty.

I know there is a view held by some that when a woman gets to forty or thereabouts, she shuts up the sex shop and settles for knitting and television. Let me tell you, it is not true. At fifty, I still hankered after a big fat male organ in my nice little cleft.

Put your self in my place, if you can. Here was I, a virile matron longing for some hero to come and give me the joy of his body, and of course, I would give him the joy of mine, and across the road was a lovely penis looking for a home, or so I thought. Action was required.

The question was how could I lure that male organ into the vicinity of my genitalia?

I began with a programme of tantalising.

As I said, I may be buxom, but it’s all firm. I therefore began by dressing so as to stimulate. Not, of course, the bikini that is so popular and evident in these sorts of tales. Such a garment was not really suitable for me. Instead, I dressed up in very tight shorts and an equally tight top.

The purpose was to display my female charms to the best advantage. The shorts were of the sort that the cloth passing under the crotch sank into my cleft, while the top, with no bra underneath, displayed both my cleavage, that is deep, and my nipples that are long.

Thus clad, I would proceed to the front garden and commence some real or imagined horticultural activity. I made a point of bending over some of the time with my buttocks pointed in the direction of Steve’s workshop. This displayed the firmness of my posterior, and gave him some idea of the position of my vulva and its desirability.

At other times I would face his window and pretend I needed a stretch, so as to display my breasts to best advantage, and also demonstrate that I did not have a sagging belly.

That it drew his attention was obvious. He must have thought that I could not see him through the window because he actually got a pair of binoculars and focused them on me. I gave him all the stretching and bending I could decently manage, and thought, “If this doesn’t get him out here, nothing will.”

Sad to say, my ploy didn’t work, although I tried it repeatedly. I think he must have rushed off to his bedroom or the bathroom to masturbate.

I had to think of something else, but what. If only I could get him out that room and into my house.

Then the obvious struck me, and I could have kicked myself for being so slow. He was a computer whiz. I had a computer. What if something went wrong with my machine?

Now, as all you computer owners know, if you don’t want anything to go wrong with the damned thing, it invariably will. But just you try to get it to go wrong deliberately. I punched every key and pressed every button. I tormented icons and played merry hell with the menu bar, and the rotten thing just would not go wrong.

Well, I would just have to play a more subtle game. Picking my time carefully so as to be as sure as I could that Tom would not be arriving home for a few hours, I crossed the great divide and knocked on Stella’s door.

Stella came to the door, her hands covered in flour, and I asked with sweet innocence, “Do you think I could have a word with Steve, my computer has gone wrong?”

“Of course, I’m sure Steve would love to help you if he can, go in and see him.”

I made my way to Steve’s office/workshop, knocked and entered. One of the first things my eyes fell upon were the binoculars on his desk.

“Steve dear,” I began, in my best maiden in distress voice,” I wonder if you could help me, my computer has gone wrong?”

I moved close to him, pretending to take an interest in some computer parts he had on the desk. My nearness seemed to disturb him, which was of course, the idea.

“What…er…what exactly has…er…gone wrong?”

“There’s all sorts of funny lines on the screen.”

“Do…er…do you want me to…er come over and…er have a look?”

“Oh, would you? That would be lovely. You are a darling. I’ll pay you, of course.”

“That…w-w-wont be…er…necessary, Jan.”

“That is kind of you, but I’m sure there’s something I shall be able to do for you in return.”

He gave a gulp and said, “D-d-do y-you w-w-want me t-t-to c-c-come now?”

“If you could just give me ten minutes. I’ve got something I need to do, and I would like to watch what you do.”

“Ok-k-kay.”

I departed triumphant. I would have him in my wicked female clutches.

The ten minutes were spent in preparing myself for the main attack. I took off my panties and put on my shortest and tightest shorts. I put on a top that plunged so low at the neckline it almost reached the bottom hem.

In this battle array, I went to answer the door when Steve rang the bell. I think he was well on the way to an erection before he saw me, but when he clapped eyes on me, I saw the formidable swelling in his shorts rise to tower like proportions.

I thought the fight almost over. Victory was mine. Not quite, however.

Remarkably, Steve had more resistance than I had been given to understand most men have. He did not collapse into my arms, begging to be relieved of his agonising lust for me.

Feigning sweet innocence I said, “Darling, when I got in the trouble seemed to have cleared up, but I would appreciate it if you would have a look at it in case it happens again.”

“Er…yes.”

I took him to the computer and he sat down in front of it and commenced to view various and unintelligible mysteries.

At first I stood behind him pretending to watch what he was doing, and becoming interested, I leaned forward so that my breasts were brushing against his shoulder, and he could experience my gentle breathing on his neck. I could feel him quivering with tension as he tried to ignore my proximity, cope with his arousal and deal with the computer.

After a few minutes of this, I drew out my deadliest weapon. I moved to stand so that my crotch was near his face as he sat. I had removed my panties for the dual purpose of letting my lubricant be seen soaking the cloth of my shorts, and in order also to let him smell my sex organ.

This latter ploy was a gamble. Some men are repelled by the woman smell, and others are driven nearly berserk with lust by it. Fortunately for me, Steve was in the last category.

His face flushed and his fingers gripped the edge of the desk. I expected him to turn on me in mad sexual passion that very moment, but he did not.

I had one last throw of the sensual dice to make.

Still acting so that it was possible I was merely looking at the computer screen, I leaned over him so that my breast, and particularly my nipples, where close to his face.

“If you won’t let me pay you,” I said seductively, “I’m sure you can think of something nice I can do for you. You’ve been so kind, coming over to help me.”

As I said this, I let my hand wander briefly through his hair.

That did it. The male animal was released from its sexual restraint and was crouching ready to spring and devour me. Well, not quite.

There are some people, male and female who, when it comes to sex, have no difficulty asking the desired person outright, “Can I have sex with you?” Sadly, they seem to be in the minority. The rest of us mess around playing endless games before the penis finally enters the vagina. I think the basis of this problem is, we have a fear of rejection and the humiliation when we are rejected.

We often hear talk of the “predatory male,” but as many of you ladies will know, it is frequently we members of the “fair sex,” who must give the male beast a final shove. Well, that is what I had to do.

“Surely, I whispered close to his ear, “I’ve got something you’d like to have?”

“I-I-er-Oh J-J-Jesus, J-J-Jan, I-I-I w-w-want t-t-to…”

I could tolerate this delayed animal leap no longer and made the pounce myself.

“You’d like to fuck me, wouldn’t you Steve.”

“I-I-I was…” Then it came out with a rush, “going to say I want to make love with you.”

At least he had a politer way of putting it than I did, but whether it was love or not was a debatable point. Personally I had no desire to debate it and what’s more, I didn’t care.

“Well, for God’s sake, Steve, let’s get on with it.”

“I don’t want it as a payment, Jan.”

My God, this boy was meticulous. “Steve, it doesn’t matter whether it is or not. If it is a payment, let’s call it a ‘win-win situation’.”

I pulled down my shorts, which was a relief because the lubricant soaking the crotch was getting uncomfortable. I then ripped off my top to reveal my naked self before him.

He was standing by now and staring at me, especially my breasts.

Frustrated at the further delay in events I started to get his shorts and underpants down, and for a moment it was my turn to stare.

What I had thought looked like an adequate male organ, was larger than I had anticipated. Released from its sartorial enclosure, it reared up like a sturdy, light brown column, topped with a purple cupola and engorged with blood. It gleamed with pre-cum. I could have eaten it, and given the chance, I’d have a good try.

“My God,” I thought, “Poor old Tom could never produce half that, even at his most robust.”

Steve was still standing, staring at me and I was eager for the action to begin. Then in a groaning, gasping sort of voice he said:

“Jan, I didn’t know you’d be so…so…so…er…”

“Sexy?” I inquired.

“Hmmyus,” he mumbled.

Things were reaching crisis point. He still made no move, yet I could see he was nearly firing off his load of cum.

“He’s going to shoot before he even gets near me,” I thought. This would be annoying because I’d only the other day had the carpet cleaned, and I didn’t want a mess on it so soon.

Steve is a big lad, powerful, if you know what I mean? In normal circumstances, I wouldn’t try anything too physical with him, but I was getting desperate. I tried giving him a push to get him to lie down on the carpet, but it was like trying to push over a cliff.

In a voice of sexual frustration and despair I cried out, “Steve, will you damn well lie down so I can fix your little…big problem.”

He seemed to shake himself out of his salacious revere and obediently lay on the floor. With sigh of combined relief and passion, I sat astride him and poising my door to paradise carefully over his manly projection, I let myself down onto him.

He fitted tightly against the walls of my vagina and as a dropped lower to take his full length, I felt his crown touch my cervix. I could take him all in, but only just.

I wasn’t expecting a great deal for myself on this occasion as the poor boy was too far gone to last long.

It is an interesting feature of having sex with someone for the first time, that it can be a roaring success or a miserable failure. In the latter case, the man may fail to maintain his erection or fail to come. With the woman she might not lubricate successfully or won’t get an orgasm. It’s usually a case of what people call, “Nerves”. Persistence is the answer to this problem.

In the case of Steve and I, it was successful up to a point. As I guessed, he couldn’t hold back, and he was no sooner in than he was erupting like a volcano with great gouts of sperm, and accompanying it with moans and howls.

My impression was he had not offloaded for some time, because he went on and on emptying himself into me. This was enjoyable, but a girl does need something for herself, so when he finally ceased his flood irrigation and started to pull out I said, “Whoa, where do you think you’re going, young man?”

“I thought it was over,” he replied.

“Not on your life, sonny,” I said. “That was only the first installment with lots and lots more to come.”

“You mean, you want me to…”

“Yes I do mean…” (Why was I always finishing his sentences for him?) “I’m going to go and wash out that love juice you’ve put into me before it gets on the carpet, and you can clean up as well. I’ve got to give you your next payment, and we’ll carry out the transaction on the bed this time.”

After a little genitalia scouring we retired to the bedroom and clambered onto the bed – or at least, I clambered on, he stood by the bed.

I thought, “Oh my God, are we going to go through the staring routine again?”

I needn’t have worried because it became clear this boy knew what he was doing. I wondered where he had learned his trade. I made a mental note ask him some time.

After briefly surveying the scene, he came beside me on the bed and combined some tongue thrusting deep kissing with breast manipulation. The latter consisted of his hand starting under my breast at the base, then slowly stroking upward to end by gently pinching my nipple.

This combination proved very potent and almost brought me to the point of orgasm, but I fought it down in an attempt to prolong our loving.

He went on to another combination of sucking a licking my nipples while his hand made a tentative exploration of my vulva and inwards. When his finger finally found my clitoris, I was nearly going out of my mind trying not to come, but determination won out, and I still held back.

Having made his voyage of discovery round the island of clitoris, Steve pushed a couple of pillows under my buttocks, spread my legs and opening the outer lips of my vulva, commenced thrusting his tongue through the heavenly gateway, to lick up my female juices.

He ended this sequence with his tongue flicking round my clitoris until in squealing weeping misery I begged him, “For God’s sake, Steve, get into me, I’m hanging right on the edge.”