The Stories Your Mother Never Told You – Part 10.

 In a tattered journal given to me by one of my clients, I came across the following account which you may find of special interest. It was clearly written describing a time when my visitor was little more than an infant. You will see that we’ve named him Billy junior, to help keep things straight. I would guess that the diary entries are from the late 1950’s, judging by the content and condition of the journal. This episode is provided free to give you a taste. If you’d like to enjoy other episodes be sure to sign up for my Patreon at the Seahorse Level.

I do find it irritating when some of the men go on about the war they fought in France.  You’d think the French girls were entirely devoid of Christian morals.  Worse, the men seem to think this somehow attractive.

I find it deplorable and when Bill said he was thinking about joining up with this business in Korea, I put a stop to it before he could get that particular ball rolling Magdalene told me about her brother and the disgusting things he’d got up to over there. Seoul is a hive of iniquity, of course, but it’s Japan that seems to bring out the very worst in the men. I really don’t see what it is that they find so attractive about these foreign girls, though I’ve heard they do everything, even on the first date. But that’s just me, I suppose.  Someone has to uphold American values in these modern times.

I believe in apple pie, Chevy’s and the ball game. And while Bill’s out watching the game with several of his friends, I guarantee you I’ll be have a ball game of my own with exactly whoever I please. These long skirts cover a multitude of sins, I assure you.

Just the other weekend I packed a nice lunch for Bill, and threw in a couple of beers, for him and the boys, who were off to watch a ball game in a neighboring town. It’s only forty minutes drive but you’d think they were going to the other end of the country.

As he drove off, the hood down, the five of them were laughing and joking. I had some laundry to do, and I’ve never liked the game myself.

“Don’t wait up,” shouted Bill, with a wave.  Honestly, you’d think I was his mother. By the time the dust had settled and the car had disappeared I walked back inside our rancher, and poured a large gin. It was a quiet Saturday morning and I had no plans for the day at all, beyond the washing. I sipped my drink, a little lemon added to it.

I like to kick off my shoes when I’m alone. It’s still warm at this time of the year, the summer not quite over. So, in a loose blouse and no brassiere I can feel the sun on my skin through the fabric. The cotton moving lightly against my nipples tickles a little. A little drink, the radio, and some welcome alone time.

After a while I rinsed the laundry in the tub, wrung out the smalls and then returned to the garden and hung every thing out on the washing line. I have a method. Bills shirts on the right, where passers by can see into the back garden where the line runs across the lot. Then his dark blue work pants (three pairs) and other outerwear. Then I’ll put little Billie’s clothes out, his profusion of muddy trousers always a colorful contrast to Bills rather boring wardrobe. Sometimes little Billie watches, but this weekend he’s over the other side of town with my sister having a sleep over with his cousins. Then I put pyjamas, first Bills, then Billie’s.

Only when the line is two thirds full, and well and truly obscured from passing eyes by the house, do I put out my own clothes. A blouse and skirts and then, near the fence I place my stockings, my panties, girdles and nighties. I find this is suitably modest, and away from anyone that might look at my washing in a manner that may seem indiscrete. And that was exactly the formula I used this morning, before going back into the house and preparing a sandwich for my lunch. I watched my underwear sway in a light breeze as I looked out of the kitchen window.

I was sitting at the kitchen table when I heard the knock on the front door. I must remind Bill to fix that electric bell. He keeps promising, but never seems to get to it.  I got to my feet, and slipped on my shoes, before opening the door. Standing on the porch was young Larry, one of Bill’s friend’s kids. Seventeen if he’s a day.

“HI Mrs. Lockwood, I’m here to do the lawn,” he said excitedly.

“You are?” I replied, surprised.

“Mr. Lockwood gave me a couple of dollars to do it. I said I’d come over after lunch,” said the bright-eyed young man.

“He did, did he,” I said examining the young man. He’s filled out nicely in the last couple of years. His mother tells me he’s planning to go to college next year. “He didn’t mention anything to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry… Should I come back another day?”

I considered the boy.

“No,” I said. “Come on in.”

The Stories Your Mother Never Told You is a collection of episodes available through my Patreon at the Seahorse level. Be sure to sign up to enjoy other episodes.

As he came into the house it didn’t occur to me that I’d neglected to put on my brassiere beneath the light blouse I had on, which is practically transparent at the best of times. It was only as I turned to Larry and saw the way he stared directly at my breasts that I realised I was practically half naked.

At first I wanted to turn away, but almost as quickly as the thought crossed my mind I rejected it. No, I would brazen it out. Besides, a couple of dollars hardly seems fairs compensation for an afternoon mowing the lawn.

Bill is the limit sometimes. He was supposed to mow that lawn tomorrow after church. Instead he’d obviously thought he’d enlist the help of one of the local boys, likely so he could get up to no good with those friends of his. It wasn’t the first time he’d asked Larry to do some yard work.  I liked the boy, though to be honest I think he’d grown a bit since I’d last seen him. He almost looked like a man.

The way he was staring at my breasts reminded me that he was no longer the ten year old that had fallen asleep in our garden when his parents had visited us shortly after we moved in to this house. Nevertheless, I moved quickly through the house and opened the back door.

“You know where everything is?” I asked.

“Sure, Mrs. Lockwood.” He was smiling, like a red-faced idiot.

“Good,” I said and he got on with finding the push lawn mower. I watched for a moment as he pushed it through the grass and could see how he’d begun to bulk up. He was clearly a hard worker.

Larry had been out there for about an hour when I brought out a glass of lemonade, this time rather more modestly dressed, a bra covering up my breasts. Still his eyes seemed to search out my shape as he sipped his drink sitting at the garden table.

“You do many lawns?” I asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Lockwood. Three on this street,” he replied.

“I think we can dispense with the ‘Mrs. Lockwood’, Larry. Call me Valerie.”

He smiled at me and drained his drink.

“I’ll be about half an hour,” he said looking at the garden, then added with a light blush, “Valerie.”

“Be sure you put those cuttings by the compost at the end of the garden,” I said.  “And I have a few things for you to do when you’ve finished.”

I got to my feet and walked back to the kitchen. As I did so I could almost feel the sensation of his eyes on my body. I looked round as I got to the backdoor and caught his gaze. He was staring at me but quickly looked away.

As he continued to work I started clearing the freshly dry washing. First Bill’s clothes, then Billie’s. I then took a couple of blouses and a tennis skirt that was hanging there. I left the remainder.

Back in the house I went into my bedroom and watched Larry from behind the net curtains. He moved nicely. I could imagine he’d be very popular with the graduating class down at the high school. I discarded my blouse and brassiere, and slipped into a loose summer dress. It had a light sash around my waist and the neckline plunged provocatively. I usually wore this with a safety pin closing the neckline. I don’t know what kind of designer had ever imagined a self-respecting woman would wear it without one.

I made a point of omitting the safety pin.

After a while Larry finished the lawn. I watched him gather the cuttings, and diligently place them by the compost heap, raking and gathering them. He kicked some of the grass cuttings under a tree, thinking I wouldn’t notice, but otherwise did as he’d been told. He then walked up to the backdoor and knocked. How very well behaved he was. I waited a few moments. I suppose I was gathering courage, or maybe just enjoying the moment. Savouring it.

I often play around with the men in my life, but breaking this young buck was a little different. It would be interesting to experience his clumsy innocence. I smiled to myself and felt the heat inside grow. I swallowed the last of my drink.

I walked out into the kitchen, opened the back door, and then turning to Larry picked up the empty washing basket on the kitchen table. I handed it to him and said, “Won’t you bring in the last of the washing, Larry?”

As he came back into the house, that washing basket in his hands, my panties, brassieres and a girdle piled within, the afternoon sun caught his hair from behind. For a moment he stood in the door. I’d not noticed that the sun streamed in like that before. It was almost as if he had a halo.

He placed the basket on the kitchen table and I said, “take a seat Larry.”

He did as he was told.

“Larry,” I said slowly, “Why is it that you blush when you use my name?”

He looked uncomfortable and said uncertainly, “I don’t blush Mrs. Lockwood.”

“Really,” I said slowly, and turned to the fridge, opened it and took a bowl of ice cream from it. Turning back to the awkward man child I said, “then say it now.”

He looked up at me as I leant over him and placed the bowl before him.

“Say my name, Larry.” I leaned close to him knowing my breasts were almost in his face.

His stare swung from my eyes, to my breasts, and the ice cream.

“Larry, I swear your eyes are as big as saucers. Are you unable to say my name?”

Slowly he mouthed the word, “Valerie.”

“It sounds like the cat’s got your tongue,” I said.

I took a desert spoon from the cutlery draw.

“Stick out your tongue,” I said, once more leaning in close.  I could feel my heart pounding, but didn’t betray myself. “I said, stick out your tongue.”

Larry looked confused, which was just perfect. He then poked his tongue out.

“Further,” I commanded.

My breast was close his face as I leaned over his fearful form. I placed the desert spoon in the ice cream, and taking a little of the melted cream held it over his tongue.

“When you do as you’re told, you get ice cream.” I dribbled a little ice cream onto his tongue and he stared at me, a symphony of confusion and fear dancing across his face.

“Now, say it again. Louder,” I commanded my stare not flinching from his.

“Valerie,” he said with a little more conviction.

“Good boy,” I replied and dribbled a little more ice cream on his tongue.

He seemed to back away a little, but I pressed myself closer, and scooped a little more ice cream.

“Now, Larry,” I said with forced intimacy, “you need to learn to clean things up in the garden properly, don’t you. I saw the way you kicked those grass cuttings under the tree.”

I held the spoon over his face, leaned further forward and with an entirely predictable shrug felt my beast fall out of my dress. I kept my eyes fixed on his, as he looked at me in awe.

Slowly I dribbled the remaining ice cream above and over my nipple. I then leaned forward and said, “Now, Larry. Clean it up.”

I pressed my hand into his hair and pulled his head to me. His open mouth closed around my nipple and I felt him move his tongue. Yes, I would be finding a few more things for Larry to occupy himself with over the next few weeks.

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