The Awakening of James Pt. 01

Prologue

Now that I'm approaching my fifties, I feel comfortable with myself. Secure in who I am and what I want. But it wasn't always that way. For much of my life, I struggled with my sexual desires; shame and arousal mixed together. I can reflect on my past now without that shame. Looking back, my sexual journey really began with Ms. Greta. Even today, when I catch the scent of coconut and vanilla on a stranger's skin, I feel an electric pulse. My heart beats faster, and I can feel my cock begin to stiffen.

Before Ms. Greta, my only experience in sexuality was limited to masturbating to the lingerie section of the department store catalog. Wearing my sister's nylons when everyone was out. Or poring over a stash of porn magazines from the '70s that I found in the woods.

I'd known Ms. Greta for a several years by then. She and her husband lived next door. He was in the Army. Like many men in my town, he'd married a German woman while deployed and brought her home. The men on our street were Army, like my step-father. We spent a lot of social time with them. Camping trips, fishing, picnics, and the near-nightly routine of the men drinking and smoking after work while the wives chat.

I was eighteen when I had the first encounter. It was the summer before I left for college. I had graduated high school just a few weeks prior in May. That summer I was working part-time in a bookstore, but I wasn't on the schedule that day. I wonder if I had been, would things have turned out differently for me?

1996

"Are you sure you don't need me to cover today, or come in later this week? I really need the hours."

"I'm sorry, James, not right now." My manager's voice is rushed. "Listen, you're at the top of the list if someone calls out. I'll give you a ring if we can use you. Otherwise, I'll see you on Sunday. Okay? Okay, bye-bye!" she chirps, hanging up before I can reply.

"So, the nerds don't need you again?" Keith says as he walks into the dining room. My stepfather. He had come home after PT for a shower and a change of clothes. "If you want to be useful today, you can mow the lawn."

He sits down to put on his boots. "Didn't I tell you that you should have gotten a real job? You're eighteen now. You should be working outside, with your hands, real labor. None of this air-conditioned librarian bullshit. You know who reads books, don't you?"

I brace myself for what I know comes next.

"Girls and faggots!" His words land like a slap. "Which are you?"

My manhood, or lack thereof, is a frequent topic for Keith. I stand silent, knowing there is no right answer. A pit of fear starts to form in my stomach. Even when he's sober, I have to be careful not to set him off. He looks down, finishes tying his boots, and stands.

"It wouldn't hurt you to hit the weights either," he says, punching me on the shoulder. I try my best not to flinch as the sting spreads through my arm.

He turns away, grabbing his keys and some papers off the counter as he heads to the door. "Just trying to toughen you up, boy," he says over his shoulder on his way out. "Don't forget, I want the lawn done by the time I get home. Make sure the edging is clean, and sweep up the damn driveway this time."

"Okay, I will." I mumble.

Keith stops on a dime, turns, and looks at me like he's trying to burn a hole through me. "I didn't hear that correctly. What did you say?"

I swallow hard and stand straight. "I said. Yes, sir. Lawn, edging, driveway. Sir!"

I feel relief when I hear the rumble of his car as it leaves the driveway and gets quieter as he drives away. I swing my left arm and rub the sore spot on my shoulder.

I look around the empty house. Okay, James, now what? None of my friends are around. They're all working or out of town. I look in the fridge out of habit, but I'm not hungry. I'd better start now, before it gets too hot. I sigh and get ready to mow the lawn.

By the time I finish mowing, it's hot and humid. Drenched with sweat, I get the weed eater and begin edging, trimming the grass in tight spaces the mower missed, working my way along the fence line.

Then I see her. Greta is out the back of her house. It looks like she's doing laundry. She's hanging a load of beach towels over her porch railing. She's wearing a bikini top and cut-off shorts. Her skin is tan. Her hair is loose and curly. She notices me and waves.

I wave back. "Sorry about the noise. I'm almost done!" I shout.

She shrugs. "Don't worry about it, James." She says my name with an easy familiarity. Then she goes back to hanging her towels.

She smiles. It's a slow smile. She knows I'm watching.

I feel my face heat. I look away.

I finish the edging, then quickly sweep the driveway so I can get out of the heat. But I keep glancing at her. When she bends over the laundry basket, my eyes follow the curve of her back. I look away before she catches me.

Feeling tired and sweaty, I put the mower and trimmer away and close the garage.

Back inside, the A/C is freezing. I drink a big glass of water from the sink, then go take a shower to cool down. I start the shower with warm water, step in, and dip my head into the stream. Leaning back, I shampoo my hair. Feeling lazy, I use the lather already on my hands to wash my face and under my arms. I get an extra squirt of shampoo and work it in my pubic hair, using the lather to wash my balls and cock.

I rinse off and slowly turn down the temperature. Gradually, I make it colder to help cool down. I get it about as cold as I can stand. I lift my arms, and the cold is like a shock in each armpit. Once I can't take it anymore, I cut off the water, squeeze the water from my hair, grab my towel, and dry off.

In my room, getting dressed, I catch sight of Greta. She's out on her back porch again. It looks like she's sunbathing. I can only see the back of her legs, from her feet to about her mid-thigh, as she lies on the lounge chair. I try to get a better look, but the window doesn't have a very clear view. Even going to the furthest edge, I can't see much more.

My heart beats faster now. What to do? Where can I get a better view? Then it hits me: our back porch. Why would I be outside? I look around, grab a book, and go outside.

I steal a glance over at her, and now I realize what she was doing earlier. She wasn't hanging laundry. She put up those towels to block the view through her porch railings. Luckily, our house sits a bit uphill from hers. As I look, I feel a thrill. I can still see her over her railing. I quickly sit on the bench, pull out my book, and pretend to read.

I've always found Greta attractive. Her husband teases her when he drinks and calls her fat. But she's not fat; she's curvy. To me, she looks like one of the models in the lingerie catalog. The ones in the large-size section. The ones I always turned to first.

After a few quick glances in her direction, I turn my head to get a good look. She's lying face down on the lounger, with a pink towel under her. Her feet dangle off the edge, toes down. I move my eyes along her legs, over her calves, up her thighs, and to her ass. She's wearing a green bikini with full-back bottoms.

She stretches, reaches back, and adjusts the strap of her bikini.

Looking at her ass, I feel my cock twitch. Reaching down, I squeeze my shaft through my shorts. I want to crawl over there. I want to bury my face between her thighs. I don't. I just watch.

I've thought about her more than once when I jerked off. I picture her at the lake, in that one-piece. It was dark green, I think. The same green as the bikini she's wearing now. She'd just come out of the water, and the nylon was plastered to her skin. Every curve. The soft roll of her belly. The heavy sway of her breasts. The thick shape of her thighs. I remember the smell of sunscreen and lake water, the feel of the sun on my shoulders. She was close enough that I could see the water beading on her skin.

I remember the way she laughed and pushed her wet hair back. The way the suit clung to her pussy, a dark triangle of fabric pressed tight. I imagined her sitting on my lap, the wet nylon against my bare chest, her thighs on either side of mine. I imagined the heat of her through the suit, the way she'd shift her weight, the way her pussy would feel pressed against my cock through the fabric. I'd jerk off to that, often, and hard.

Sometimes I'd picture her wearing the lingerie from the catalog. Every roll is a place I want to put my mouth. Every curve is a place I want to touch. Her husband is an idiot. She deserves to be worshiped.

Now I have a great view. My gaze travels up her broad back. She reaches back and unties her top. The strings fall loose. She pulls the fabric away and sets it on the towel beside her. She arches her back, letting the sun hit her bare skin. She sighs. She doesn't look around. She doesn't check the other windows. She already hung the towels to block the view of most of the neighbors. But she didn't block me. Maybe she couldn't. Maybe she forgot. Maybe she doesn't care if I see. She's not doing it for anyone. She's doing it for herself. But she's doing it where I can watch.

I can see the side of her breast. Her arms are forward, like a swimmer caught in mid-stroke. Her curly blonde hair seems to glow in the sun.

I look away and quickly glance around to see if anyone is outside. I can't see anyone, and every window in sight has its blinds closed. A car rolls past. I freeze, my hand still on my cock. It doesn't slow. I exhale.

Looking back at Greta, my eyes immediately fix on her ass. Her bikini bottom is filled with her curves, and I can see a bit of her ass slipping out the bottom. My breathing grows shallow. My cock feels tight in my shorts. Without taking my eyes off her, I slip my right hand down the leg of my shorts. I reach under the elastic of my briefs and tug my cock free. My shaft pops out, hardening as blood fills it.

I pull my the leg of my shorts down a bit, then begin to rub the head of my cock with my thumb. I don't know where to look. Her glorious ass, or the side of her exposed breast? My eyes keep being drawn to her ass, to the way the material of her bikini shows her curves in the light. I imagine what they'd feel like against my face. I'm trying to commit every detail to memory.

I keep rubbing. I can't get a good grip to jerk it since I tugged it out through my shorts. I've never done it this way before, and the rubbing feels good. My hand and thigh are sticky with precum.

Her arms move. She stirs a bit, then begins to roll over. I'm transfixed. As she turns, first one breast comes into view, then the other. They are sexier than I imagined. Large and round. Her nipples are much bigger than I expected, rosy pink.

I'm practically holding my breath now. I alternate between rubbing the shaft of my cock and squeezing the head. I can feel heat building in me. I know it won't be much longer before I cum. She squirms a bit, adjusts her sunglasses, then pushes herself into a sitting position. Her breasts are glorious, swaying, her nipples pointing outward. What would they feel like on my face? What would they taste like? How would her nipples feel under my tongue?

She starts to reach for something to the side. Her head turns. Her eyes find me. I gasp and duck down behind the bench.

"James!" she shouts. I lie motionless, frozen.

"James, I saw you!"

She doesn't cover herself. She doesn't reach for her top. She stands there, topless, and staring in my direction. She's not embarrassed. She's in charge.

My heart pounds. My cock wilts in my hand, sticky with precum. I wipe my hand on my shirt.

"James! You come over and explain yourself." With her accent, each syllable feels like a sharp knock. When I don't answer, she continues. "I'll give you ten minutes to get over here, or I'll call your father!" This sends a chill down my spine because she means Keith.

I stay on the floor until I hear the slam of her screen door. Then I quickly scurry inside. In a panic, I don't know what to do. What will she do when I go over there? What will Keith do to me when he finds out? I don't have a choice. I change into clean underwear and shorts.

As I walk over, I feel weak in the legs. My hand trembles as I press the doorbell. She must have been waiting by the door, because it opens in an instant.

Greta is standing there in a pink robe, one hand on her hip. Her face is stern.

"Inside!" She points and steps aside. I hesitate. The trembling spreads through my body. She leans in. "You talk to me, or I talk to your father. Verstanden?" Her accent sends an electric chill up my spine. Her w's are sharp, almost like v's, her th's clipped short. I nod and step inside.

She smells like coconut sunscreen. Her arms are crossed under her breasts. She's not angry. She's something else.

I follow her toward the dinning room. On the table is a half-empty bottle of wine. Next to it, a single glass with lipstick on the rim and a sip of wine left at the bottom. One glass. She's alone. Her house is a mirror image of my own, with the same open-plan living room and dining room. It's always weird to be in a house with the same layout as your own, except flipped left to right.

"Sit," she says, pointing to a chair. I do as she says.

"What should I do with you?" she asks, arms crossed, her stern look fixed on me. She doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't need to. I avoid her gaze and look at the floor. My heart is pounding.

"How old are you?"

"I'm... I'm eighteen," I manage to mumble.

"Eighteen." she repeats. She pauses, studying me. Then she smiles, slow, small, and pleased. "So you're old enough to know better." She grabs me by the chin. Her fingers are warm and strong. I can smell coconut and vanilla. She squeezes my cheeks together and turns my face up to hers. "You will look at me when you answer. You will speak up. Ja?"

"Yes," I say through pursed lips.

She squeezes tighter. "You will call me Ms. Greta."

"Yes, Ms. Greta," I gurgle through her grip.

After a long pause, she releases me. "Have you had a girlfriend?"

"A couple," I reply.

Her hand clamps around my chin again. "What?"

"A couple, Ms. Greta."

She lets go. "A couple," she repeats.

Another long pause. "Have you had sex?"

"Uh..." I hesitate.

"Well?"

"No, Ms. Greta," I reply, barely above a whisper.

"Never?"

I shake my head.

She tilts her head, studying me. A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Then she crosses her arms again, giving a glimpse of her cleavage as her robe separates. I try not to look. I look anyway. She keeps her stern eyes on me.

"Well, have you seen a naked woman?"

I shake my head. "No." I swallow hard. "Not in person. Not before today, Ms. Greta."

She clucks her tongue. "You still have not seen a naked woman, boy. I was topless, not naked."

My face burns with embarrassment, but at least my trembling has stopped.

She continues to pace, not taking her eyes off me. It feels like an eternity.

"I know what to do with you," she says, her voice softening slightly. "On your knees. Here." She points to the carpet in front of her. Her voice is soft but firm. I take a breath, walk over, and kneel where she points.

"Good," she says, nodding, towering over me. "Perverts hide to look at a woman. Are you a pervert?"

"No, Ms. Greta," I reply.

She bends forward and grasps me by the chin again, but this time her grip is gentle. "I think you are a dirty little pervert." She pauses, holding my chin. "Does the dirty little pervert want to see under my robe?"

"Yes, Ms. Greta," I whisper.

"Beg, pervert," she says, her voice dropping lower. "Beg me." She releases me and takes a step back. She puts her hands on her hips and looks down at me. "Well?"

My heart races. "Ms. Greta..." I swallow hard. "Can I see under your robe? Please, I beg you, Ms. Greta."

Looking sternly at me, she raises an eyebrow. "Why do you want to see?"

My mind races. What answer does she want? "Because I am a dirty little pervert, Ms. Greta."

A smile spreads across her face. "Good."

She unties the belt. The robe parts slowly. Green bikini bottoms, nearly level with my face. Above them, her bare tits. She runs her hands along the satin trim, slides the robe off her shoulders, and lets it fall to the floor with a soft rustle.

I can smell her now. Soap, something faintly floral mixing with the coconut and vanilla, and beneath it something earthy. My cock goes rock hard in an instant. It strains against my shorts. As I shift, I feel the carpet press into my knees.

"Well, take a good look, pervert."

She puts her hands back on her hips. Her legs are spread, feet shoulder-width apart. I look down at her feet. Red toenails, a few chips flaked off, a lipstick-kiss tattoo on the top of her right foot, a thin gold chain around her ankle. I'm staring at her feet because I'm too timid to look at her crotch.

But I can't resist any longer. My gaze climbs the curve of her thigh to the bikini. Up close I can see it's a jungle print of ferns or palm leaves. High-waisted. The elastic bites into her belly and hips just enough. I don't know how long I kneel there, breathing her in, watching the fabric stretch over her, the subtle outline of her mound. My mind races; under that thin scrap is her pussy. That same fabric has been pressed tight against her cunt all day, while she paced, while she scolded me, while she called me a pervert. I lick my lips and swallow.

My eyes climb to her smooth, round belly, then to her breasts. They look so soft. I want to touch them, but I don't dare. Her skin is paler around them, a triangular tan line where a bikini top would normally sit. Her nipples are large and rosy, and I can't stop watching them sway gently as she breathes.

I look upward to her smile, her head cocked to one side, one eyebrow raised. "Well, dirty little pervert, are you enjoying the view?"

I nod. "Yes, Ms. Greta." I feel the strain of my cock, and the cool wet spot of precum soaking through my shorts.

"When you saw me outside, what did you think about?"

I hesitate. "Your bikini bottoms, Ms. Greta." I swallow. "How the fabric was pulled tight across your ass. How it must hug your pussy. I was thinking how it must feel against your skin. How it would feel to touch. How it would feel against my face."

"Oh, these?" She tucks her thumbs into the waistband. "How would these feel on your face?" She tugs the band outward, traces her thumbs across the fabric, then lets it snap back.

She steps forward, inches from my face. I inhale deeply. Coconut and vanilla again, stronger this time, with a hint of something musky underneath. Her heat. Her cunt.

"Want to feel it? The dirty little pervert knows what he must do."

I can't take my eyes off her crotch. Up close, the outline of her mound is clearer. I can see faint stubble at the edge of her bikini line. A crease in the fabric, the outline of her pussy lips.

"Please, Ms. Greta. I beg you. May I feel your bikini-covered pussy against my face? Please, Ms. Greta."

For a moment, she considers me. Then she runs her hands along the sides of my head, raking her fingers through my hair before digging her nails into my scalp.

Before I can react, she pulls my face into her crotch. It throws me off balance, and I catch myself on my hands. She doesn't let go.

My face is buried against her. The scent hits me. Musk, salt, the warm earth scent of her cunt through the fabric. My nose presses into her pussy. She rocks slightly, pulls my head back, then presses her bikini-covered cunt to my mouth and nose. The soft fabric seals over my lips and nose. It's damp with her heat. I look up at her, past her breasts, into her eyes. She grins down at me, sharp and pleased. I can hardly breathe. She doesn't let go.

"This is what you wanted, no? You like this, don't you, dirty little pervert?"

"Yes, Ms. Greta," I mumble into her pussy.

"Dirty little pervert!" She pulls my head tight against her. My nose flattens into the fabric. Through it, I can feel the soft, wiry hint of her hair. My lower lip presses into my teeth so hard I taste copper. Her hands grip either side of my head.

"Mmm, dirty little pervert," Ms. Greta coos. She begins to rock her hips. She grinds against me with a steady rhythm, pressing harder, rocking faster. A pink flush spreads across her cheeks. Her lips part. Her breath comes faster. My lungs burn.

"Dirty... little... pervert," she moans between grunts. With each thrust, she repeats it. "Dirty..." thrust, "little," thrust, "pervert." She chants it like a curse, in time with her grinding. My nose is crushed into the fabric, growing wet with her sweat. I can feel the shape of her lips, a hard little nub, the soft bristle of her hair. Every thrust flattens my nose and seals my nostrils shut. She uses my mouth like it's hers. It's all I can do to keep my balance. Her grip keeps me pinned between her thighs. Struggling to breathe, I manage an occasional gasp.

I lose count of the thrusts. My burning knees go numb, carpet digs into my hands. My jaw aches. Her sweat drips down my face and mixes with mine. She slows sometimes, almost stopping, then starts again. Each time, I think it's almost over. Each time, she proves me wrong.

"Dirty..." thrust, "little," thrust, "pervert."

I wish I could taste her, but her grip seals my mouth shut. Her rhythm picks up.

"Dirty... Mmm... Dirty... Mmm... Little..."

Her eyes close. Her head tilts back. Like she's looking at something I can't see. Her hips roll, but she's not here. She's somewhere else. Her breath changes. Her grip tightens. She mutters something low in German. I don't understand it.

She keeps going. Minutes, maybe more. I can't tell. My world narrows to the wet fabric, the hard nub, the weight of her thighs. Her thighs are slick with sweat, and they slide against my cheeks. Every time she clamps down, the pressure is hot and wet. She almost catches something. Her breath stops. Her hips go still. Then she starts again. And again. She's not just using me. She's drawing it out.

She moves faster. Harder. She's not grinding against my mouth anymore. She's using it. She's taking what she wants. Her thighs tighten around my ears. Her fingers twist in my hair. She's chasing something. I don't know what. I just know I can't breathe.

Then her eyes open. They find mine. They're not the same eyes. They're dark. Hungry. A predator. She looks at me like I'm prey. Like I'm a tool. Like I'm not a person. I'm just a thing she needs.

She smiles. It's not a kind smile. She's watching me struggle. She likes it. She wants more. She takes it. She holds my gaze. She doesn't look away. Then she grinds one last time, hard, and holds me there. Her smile fades. Her breath catches.

Her hips stutter. She shudders and cries, "Du dreckiger kleiner Perverser!" Her fingers twist in my hair and pull. "Ich komme!" Through the bikini, I feel her tighten--a hot, damp pulse that seems to go on forever. Her pussy clenches against my mouth in waves, each one stronger than the last. The clench, the flutter, the flood. The fabric is soaked. I can taste her through it. Salt. Heat. Something I don't have a name for. I don't want it to stop. Her whole body seizes, then shudders, then goes slack.

Her grip stays tight. Her thighs tremble. She sucks in a sharp breath. She bites her lip. Her eyes flutter shut. I feel tremors in her muscles, little aftershocks that make her legs quiver against my ears. Her breathing turns ragged. The fabric is soaked through. I can feel her cunt through it -- the warmth, the softening, the way the wet fabric clings to her lips. She doesn't let me go.

Then a long, slow sigh escapes her. Her hips give a lazy roll against my mouth. Her fingers loosen in my hair and stroke instead of pull. She hums, soft and satisfied. "Gut," she murmurs. "Braver Junge."

I don't know what to do. I don't know what just happened. I just know I can taste her on my lips.

Then she jerks my head away and steps back. "Up straight. On your knees, pervert!"

I push myself back up onto my knees.

She stands over me, hands on her hips, but something in her look has softened. A blonde curl sticks to her damp face. A faint flush sits on her cheeks. Her lips are still parted, her chest still rising fast. Her breasts sway. Her nipples are hard. Her belly is slick, still trembling. A bead of sweat rolls into her navel. I want to follow it with my tongue. The wet bikini bottoms cling to her, dark and shining. Her thighs glisten. I want to put my mouth back between her legs. I want to thank her. I want to apologize. I'm ashamed of how much I liked it. I'm ashamed I want to beg for more.

She speaks. Her voice is soft but firm.

"I will give my dirty little pervert a gift. Does my dirty little pervert want a gift?"

Did she really call me her dirty little pervert? My heart skips a beat. I nod. "Yes, Ms. Greta." I swallow hard.

"You like my body, don't you?" she asks.

I nod. "Yes, Ms. Greta."

She smiles, small, satisfied, almost fond. Then she reaches down and hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her bikini bottoms. She holds my gaze as she tugs gently. The wet fabric peels away with a soft, sticky sound. I can smell her stronger now--warm skin, sweat, and something secret underneath.

I don't know what it is. I only know it pulls at me. My mouth waters. My cock aches. Something deep in my gut, something I've never felt before, leans toward her. I want to bury my face between her legs. I don't know why. I just do.

At first, I see more of her belly and a faint pink line where the band has dug into her skin. As she pulls them further, I see the top of her bush, curly brown hair pressed flat and damp. The fabric clings to her lips for a moment before she peels it away. Then she bends at the waist and, with a flourish, she flicks them past her thighs. They drop to her ankles.

They pool there, a dark, wet cuff around her legs. I can't stop staring. My mouth waters. I want to pick them up. I want to put them in my pocket. I want to press them to my face. I think about how they'd feel against my skin. What they'd feel like to wear. My face burns. I feel an ache, like a new hollow spot in me has opened up.

She steps out of them, slow and deliberate, and stands over me. My eyes lock with hers again. A small smile plays on her lips. I look down. Her bush is neatly trimmed in a triangle. Beneath it, her fleshy pink-brown lips peek out. I can just make out the glisten of her slit. She's wet--still wet from cuming. Her thighs are slick with sweat. Her cunt is swollen and pink. I can smell her from here. Warm, musky, sweet.

She doesn't hide. She wants me to look. She shifts her weight, letting me see everything.

My cock is so hard it hurts. I can feel precum slicking the head. I want to touch her. I want to kiss her. I want to taste the sweat on her belly. I want to press my face into her bush. I don't dare move.

She smiles down at me. It's the smile of a woman who knows exactly what she's doing. She sees the hunger on my face. Her smile deepens.

"Now you have seen a naked woman!" she says, putting her hands back on her hips. "But now we have a problem. You see me naked, but I have not seen you. Take off your shirt and pull down your shorts."

I swallow hard and look up at her.

"Now!" she demands.

I quickly pull my T-shirt off. I unbutton my shorts, pulling them and my briefs down to my knees. My cock springs out and upward. It throbs with my heartbeat, the head slick with precum. My face burns. My cock doesn't care. It's harder than it's ever been. I want to cover myself. I don't. She wants to see.

Her eyes drop to my cock. She doesn't look away. She doesn't pretend not to look. She wants me to know she's looking.

"Uncircumcised," she says. Then she kicks her bikini bottoms to me. "You wanted to know how these feel. Wrap them around your cock and jerk off for me."

I pick up her bottoms and feel the slick material in my hand. They're still warm. There's a damp dark spot inside the gusset. I bring them to my face before I can stop myself. They smell like her -- musk, salt, coconut, and vanilla. I can't believe I'm holding her bikini bottoms. I can't believe she's letting me.

She walks to the table, grabbing her pink towel, and lays it on the floor in front of me.

"You will cum only on the towel. Verstanden? Does my dirty little pervert understand?" The words my dirty little pervert make my heart skip a beat again.

"Yes, Ms. Greta."

She waits a moment. "Well, begin!"

I wrap her bikini bottoms around my cock. The fabric is soft and slippery, still warm from her body. I begin to stroke them up and down my shaft. The wet fabric makes a small, slick sound. The elastic band rubs against my skin.

"Yes, dirty little pervert. That's it," she coos, tracing her fingertips along the sides of her breasts. Her nipples are hard. "Not too fast now. Ms. Greta wants to take her time seeing you naked."

I continue to stroke my cock slowly, looking up at her face, then down to her pussy. She rakes her fingertips through her curly bush. Occasionally she parts her slippery pussy lips with her index finger and gently rubs herself. The fabric is tight around my cock. I feel it slip, bunch up, and stretch back out with each stroke. It's slick with her and with me. I wonder what they'd feel like on me. My balls tighten. I want to go faster, but I don't dare.

"My dirty little pervert will listen to me. I want you to stroke up, then down. Up, then down."

She continues to tell me "Up" and "Down," varying the rhythm. She gently rubs her pussy with one hand and rakes her nails along her thighs and hips with the other. Her breath is getting faster. Her eyes are dark. She never looks away from my cock.

"Good, my dirty little pervert. Now I want you to close your eyes. Start stroking your cock faster. I will count down from ten, and when I get to one you will cum. Ja?"

"Unh, yes, Ms. Greta." I grip my cock tightly, jerking her bikini up and down my shaft faster and faster. I can feel the tingling well up inside me. With my eyes shut, I can only smell coconut and vanilla and hear her voice.

"Ten... nine... eight... seven... not too fast."

I imagine her. What would it feel like to sink my cock into her pussy? How would her breasts feel?

"Six... five... oh... four... almost there."

I hear something wet and soft. A slick sound. A small catch in her breath. I don't know what it is. I don't care. I've never felt anything like this. My heart hammers. My breath saws in and out. My thoughts scatter.

"Three..."

I hear the whisper of fabric. A soft rustle. A quiet click. I want to cum so badly it hurts. My thighs are tense and wobble. My knees burn from the carpet. The fabric is slick with my precum. The tip of my cock tingles in anticipation.

"Two..."

I'm on the edge now, squeezing and jerking myself, imagining I'm about to cum in Ms. Greta's pussy.

"One!"

The explosion hits. Electric tingling rushes through my body. Cum pulses through my cock, pulse after pulse erupting out of me. It's the most powerful ejaculation I've ever felt.

Then--click. A flash of light behind my eyelids. The whir of a camera. My warm euphoria washes away like an ice bath. I open my eyes. Ms. Greta is standing there in her robe, holding an instant camera. She pulls the picture out with a snap.

"This will be my gift. From my dirty little pervert," she says, gently shaking the photo. The coo is gone from her voice. It's flat now, businesslike. She doesn't smile. I catch a glimpse of the faint image as it starts to develop: me, naked, mouth open, cock wrapped in her bikini. I look like a pervert. I look like hers. She looks at the photo, and she smiles. Not at me. At the picture. Then she tucks it into her robe pocket.

"Now. We're done for today. Put your clothes on."

I collapse back onto my heels. A pit opens in my stomach. I look down at my hand still gripping my cock wrapped in her bikini. My cum is on the towel, some on her bottoms, and a little is still dribbling from the tip. I want to ask what she'll do with the photo. I don't.

My legs shake from the orgasm and from fear of what Ms. Greta might do next.

I stand. My legs are unsteady. I reach for my shorts.

"Don't move," she says.

I freeze. My shorts in one hand, my cock still wrapped in her bikini in the other.

She disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running. I stay frozen. The house is quiet. I can hear my own breath. I can hear her moving. Then she comes back with a warm washcloth.

She kneels in front of me. Her robe falls open. Looking down at her, I can see the tops of her breasts. She doesn't fix it. I want to put my hands on her shoulders. I want to kiss the soft skin of her neck.

I'm standing over her. She's on her knees. It should feel like power. It doesn't. I feel like a boy. She looks like a woman.

She takes my hand and gently unwraps the bikini from my cock. The fabric is sticky. It peels away slowly.

"Look at this mess," she says. Her voice is firm, but not cruel. "You made a mess on my towel. On my swimsuit."

The washcloth is warm. She begins to clean me. Her touch is gentle, wiping the head of my cock as she gently coaxes out the last of my cum. Then the shaft, my balls. She wipes my hand, then my thighs. She's thorough and calm, but I can see her jaw is tight. Her eyes flick to the window, then to the photos on the wall.

Her hands are on my cock. She holds me like she owns me. Ms. Greta is gentle and patient. She doesn't hurry. I can only manage a shallow breath.

She pauses and pats the photo in her pocket. As she looks at me, something softens in her face for a moment. Then it's gone.

"You're a problem, James," she says quietly. "But you're my problem now."

She finishes cleaning me, folding the washcloth. She stands.

"Don't worry. I won't tell your parents what you did today. Your secret is safe with me. Put your clothes on and go home."

I pull my shorts up and button them, then pull my shirt over my head.

Ms. Greta gives me a tight hug. She holds me a moment too long. Her fingers press into my back. With her cheek against mine, she whispers, "Today you saw a naked woman. Maybe someday you'll get to fuck a woman." Her curly hair tickles my face. Her breath is warm on my neck. I feel all mixed up. Frightened. Excited. Ashamed. Her embrace is comforting, and I hate how much I want to stay in it.

She pulls away. In her normal voice, she says "Bye-bye, James."

"Goodbye, Ms. Greta," I say, turning toward the door.

"Wait!" she says. As I turn, she smacks me in the face with her bikini bottoms. "You keep them."

She's smiling. Not the cold smile from before. A real one. That's worse. My heart pounds as I clutch the only piece of her I have. I fold it quickly, shove it into my pocket, and walk out the door. I can feel her eyes on me. I don't look back.

On the walk home, I worry about what she'll do with the picture. My chest is tight. I feel light-headed. My underwear is soaked with my precum, cold against my skin, making my shorts stick to me.

When I get home, I rush to my room and stash her bikini bottoms in the corner of my closet. I strip and take a quick shower. The water runs over me, but I can still feel the weight of the photo somewhere out there.

Later that night at dinner, my mind keeps wandering back to Ms. Greta.

"Guess who called me today at work?" my mother asks Keith.

He shrugs. "Who?"

"Greta!"

My heart sinks. My throat goes tight.

"Oh, yeah, what'd she want?" Keith asks between bites of meatloaf.

"She said James was a real help today with some boxes in her garage."

Mom looks to me. "She said you were a natural."

"Boxes?" Keith looks at me. "So you did do some manual labor today."

I nod. I don't trust my voice.

"That's right. And well, you know her husband is on deployment. Anyway, Greta said she has some more things she could use help with around the house this summer, and wanted to know if it's alright for James to stop by more often to help. Well, of course I told her it's fine with us!"

I stare down at my plate. I don't taste the meatloaf. I can still smell coconut and vanilla. Not on my fingers. In my head. And in my closet, hidden in the corner, her bikini bottoms are waiting.

That night, alone in my room, I pull them out. They're still faintly damp. I press them to my face and breathe her in. I think about wrapping them around my hard cock again. I want to. But something else stirs. It's quiet. I don't want to cum in them. I want to wear them.

I strip off my shorts and briefs. I stand there in the dark, holding them. I've worn my sister's nylons before. That was different. That was smooth and secret. That was wrong, but this is worse. These belong to Ms. Greta. The tag says L. I trace the elastic with my thumb.

I step into them. One leg, then the other. The fabric is cool at first. It warms against my skin as I pull them up. The elastic settles against against my hips. They're not tight. They're snug. The fabric across the front stretches tight over my hard cock. The gusset is narrow and the sides press against my balls. I can see the shape of myself through them. I can feel her wetness against me.

Looking in the mirror I don't recognize myself. My face burns. My cock strains against the fabric. I wonder if she's looking at the photo. I wonder if she's touching herself.

Then the phone rings.

I freeze. The house is dark. My parents are asleep. The phone rings again.

I shouldn't answer. I do.

"Hello?"

There's music in the background. Something slow. A woman singing in German. Then a clink. Ice in a glass.

"Did you keep them?" Her voice is low, amused. A little loose.

My throat goes tight. "Yes, Ms. Greta."

I hear her take a sip. Ice clicks against her teeth. Then she swallows.

"Good." A pause. I hear her breath against the receiver. Then, softer, "I wish you--"

She stops.

The music plays. I hear her shift. The rustle of her robe.

"Goodnight, my dirty little pervert. See you soon."

The line goes dead. I listen to the empty hiss. Then the fast busy signal--uh-uh-uh-uh--the phone company's way of telling me she's gone. Then silence.

I stand there in my dark room, her bikini bottoms still on me. The fabric is warm now. It clings to my hips. I look down at myself. I can see the shape of my cock through the nylon. I can see a dark spot of precum growing at the tip.

The silence rings in my ear.

I don't take them off.