My naughty fingertips playfully trace the outline of Jackson's shirtless body, from the sides of his neck down to his chest, and when retracing the pattern, I occasionally allow my sharp fingernails to dig into his bare skin. I am mindful to avoid touching his nipples.
At first, anyway.
"You have a beautiful body," I confess, "I mean, the part that I can see. It is so responsive, but I don't hold you accountable for your reaction," I add, however disingenuous that might sound, "even if you were to remove your trousers, just for a moment, here in a public park. My hands would just keep touching, below your belt -- obviously, and I wouldn't blame you -- I mean, how could I blame you, when you are so good looking and I, a normal woman, am subject to the normal passions that bind me?"
I tell first-time lads that it is a 'skin massage' -- something spontaneous after we initiate a friendship and decide to meet in a public park. I simply can't help myself. "You have to remove your shirt and place it over your eyes -- like a blindfold," I instruct, "and lie quietly on your back."
My experience is that lads this age cannot get enough of a woman's touch, and a few dates later they confess to me that, universally, they want more. Specifically, they want sex -- which is precisely what I don't offer them. This is the game. My clothes remain on, but their clothes start coming off.
Naturally, it is a process.
Lads are mesmerized by the sensation of touch from a woman over their shirtless bodies, helpless to fight off the pleasure of the 'torturous touching,' whilst simultaneously feeling compelled to provide a series of personal confessions, when asked. Shirtless and blindfolded, lads are little more than putty in my hands as I happily mold them into something else.
Something more submissive than what they already are.
Lads this age crave the approval of ladies like myself -- mature ladies with naturally attractive facial features and who take proper care of themselves. A lad's earliest fantasies are about his mother, and I serve as a sensual proxy for that preternatural affection. When I am out 'lad-hunting' I dress professionally but glam it up just a little: the blouse is tighter than one worn in a business office, the skirt is likewise snug, and the heels are a bit taller than normal. It is a smart look, one that turns male heads but not so fetishy as to elicit cat calls or derogatory commentary.
On first meetings I strive for a subdued visage of 'the governess look' -- one that feeds their active boyish imaginations: perfect make-up, restrictive clothing, and an air of sublime confidence. It is easy to identify inexperienced lads, lads who would obediently acquiesce to the word of a dominant older woman, and never have the temerity to initiate or even reciprocate any physical interaction. They make the best subjects for what I ultimately have in mind.
Even at an early stage of development lads will willingly take their clothes off for me. Even in a public setting. Even if I only suggest it.
Lads also tell me that I have a pretty voice. It is a British accent, which universally drives lads from Jackson's country positively mardy. When I spend time with such lads I speak deliberately, and with a more melodic tone than I do normally.
The first time I place my hand on their bodies, whilst addressing them, stops them dead in their tracks. Their breathing immediately changes rhythm, and their young bodies tense up.
This is my second meeting and first 'date' with Jackson; we gather in a remote corner of a park at the edge of the university. The rolling hills, plentiful shrubs, and trees provide us a bit of privacy. For this meeting I have notably toned down 'the governess look' for something more sporty -- having already piqued his sexual interest, I want to now position myself more as a surrogate for his sexuality rather than as a sex object myself.
