Sir Willy Comes of Age

"Ms. Jenson?" I called out. There was no response, "Ms. Jenson?" I called out again a little louder, still not comfortable calling her Susan. Other than the sound of a lone Meadowlark, the yard was strangely silent. As I approached the patio, my heart suddenly sank as I spotted a large note taped to the sliding glass door. Dodging the patio furniture, I dashed to read it.

"Jeremy,

I am so sorry, but I was called into work this morning. I had planned to take off the entire week, but it was an emergency and I had to go in. If you don't mind, please continue with the pool. I should be home tomorrow. I'll rent a power washer to clean the pool plaster and deck. Please be careful -- I'll see you tomorrow.

Susan"

My heart absolutely sank. Oh My God -- did she have a change of heart. Was she remorseful about what happened yesterday? Had she regained her senses?

My knees were literally shaking, my stomach was turning inside out and I'm sure all the color had left my body. I must have just stood there reading and rereading that damn note over and over for ten minutes.

Finally, I laid the note down on the patio table and returned to cleaning the pool. But I could not keep my mind on the tile or anything else for that matter. All I could think about was that damn note. I played it over and over in my head. I envisioned every possible nightmarish scenario. Would my parents find out, would Rebecca and Adam find out, and if so, would Adam beat the shit out of me for fucking his mother? Would my friends find out I fucked a grandmother ... but worst of all, would I ever see Susan again?

It was early afternoon when I finished up the tile. I hosed down all the deck and the tile and washed it all into the pool drain before backwashing the whole mess out into the alley storm drain. I then put all the cleaning supplies and chemicals away before picking up the note and reading it one more time.

Okay -- maybe I'm just reading too much into this. Susan is a nurse, and she does work at the hospital. Emergencies do happen, and I really never understood what her duties were anyway. It probably really was an emergency, and I'm just a paranoid freak. I put the note back on the patio table and scrawled across the bottom:

That's okay -- I understand. I hope everything is OK and I'll see you in the morning. Jeremy

There, I felt a little better, but to be honest, I didn't sleep all that well that night.

Wednesday

I did not oversleep this morning. I was already awake when I heard my dad's alarm clock go off. I wanted to get up, but I figured I'd better at least wait until Mom and Dad were ready to leave for work. After all, it was Spring Break, and I didn't want to raise any suspicions.

Once I heard them both in the kitchen, I got up, showered and after putting on my same lucky swimsuit and a ratty T-shirt, I headed for the kitchen. Mom asked if I wanted breakfast, and I responded sure as I sat down to read the sports page before my brother hogged it. Dad questioned me on how it was going at the Jenson's. Surprisingly, I felt very much at ease just saying, "Oh it's going fine. I finished all the tile and grout yesterday and today I'm going to power-wash the whole pool before refilling it."

Mom placed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me and asked, "Is she paying you enough for all that work?"

I almost choked as I tried to restrain my glee when I responded, "Oh yes, Mom, she is paying me very well."

Turning back to the stove, she said, "Well, that's good. You're going off to college in a few months and you'll need the money."

"I know Mom, I know," I quickly responded, hoping to end the conversation before she asked me anything else.

I opened the gate to the Jenson's back yard at seven-forty on the dot, and to my great relief, there was Susan, dressed in her usual work clothes, moving all of the patio furniture out into the middle of the yard.

Before I could say anything, she turned toward me and said, "Jeremy, I am so sorry I missed you yesterday. Unless I'm out of town, I'm always on call, and it was just one of those days ..."

I think she was going to say more, but I cut her off. "Susan, that's fine, I completely understand. I finished all of the tile yesterday and I'm ready for whatever is next."

I felt comforted that she wanted to make sure I hadn't been too freaked out by yesterday's unexpected events. I was, of course, but I'm okay now and I think she sensed that. "Well great," she said. "I've rented a power-washer and if you could help me get it out of the back of my car, we could do the pool and patio."

The power-washer was much heavier than I expected, but in a display of brut masculinity, I lifted it out of the trunk of her car by myself and dragged it to the backyard. I'd never actually used a power-washer before, but once we hooked it up to the garden hose and started the engine, it was pretty easy to use and certainly made cleaning the plaster and surrounding concrete very easy.

Once the pool was immaculate and all of the old dirty water was back-washed down the drain, I power washed the patio, all of the back-yard walks and all of the patio furniture that Susan had so carefully organized for me. We were completely through by eleven o'clock, and I started refilling the pool with every garden hose she had. I put the power-washer in the garage as she said we'd be using it again tomorrow to do the front yard.

I was pretty dirty, sweating like a horse and soaking wet when I heard her say, "Jeremy, that looks great -- how about a shower?"

My heart soared as I realized Monday had not just been a fluke, and I quickly responded, "Sure, of course."

I followed her directly to her bathroom, only this time she started stripping once we were inside the door. As we walked across her family room, she removed her blouse and threw it on the couch, she dropped her bra to the floor in the hallway, kicked off her shorts as we entered her bedroom and as her feet touched the bathroom tile, she rolled her sweat-soaked panties to her ankles and kicked them to the corner. I, of course, was following her lead and after entering the shower, she turned to confirm that I was right behind her, stark naked and stiff with anticipation.

That Cheshire cat smile again filled her face and as she was adjusting the water temperature, she said, "I see you missed me yesterday," gazing at my quickly rising pecker.

Before I could think of anything clever to say, she grabbed my arm and yanked me into the shower. Susan quickly filled her hands with body wash and began sliding them all over my body. She started with my chest, did my arms and pits, and then spun me around to do my back. Soon adding a big soapy mitt to the party, she scrubbed my back with the mitt, while her other soapy hand massaged my neck.

After a few minutes of this amazing pampering, kneeling behind me, she used the mitt on my legs and slid her ungloved hand between my legs to stroke my rigid Willy, massage my balls and run her slippery fingers up and down my butt crack. Within just a matter of minutes, she realized I was about to pop and quickly removed her hand.

"Your turn," she said as she reloaded the mitt with body wash and handed it to me. And then with another huge smile on her face, she said, "Or should I say -- my turn?"

I took the mitt from her and followed the same path she had just completed on me, including turning her around to scrub her back and legs while sliding my bare soapy hand between her legs to massage her crotch and run my fingers up and down her butt crack. I figured if she did it to me, so hopefully, it's something she would like as well. And apparently it was, as she soon began cooing like a songbird.

When I felt like I'd probably washed, cleaned, and scrubbed just about everything I could, I stood up and handed her the mitt back. She grabbed the handheld showerhead from the wall, and rinsed me off head to toe, before handing it to me. I quickly realized there was a pattern here - she was training me. Mostly non-verbal, more of a hands-on training, so to speak, but none the less, this was clearly lesson number two, and I'd better be paying attention, as there was likely to be a test later.

After playfully squirting each other with the shower sprayer for several minutes, including me spraying the water straight up between her legs the way she had done to herself on Monday, she turned off the water, grabbed me by my freshly minted manhood and led me to the bed. Assuming the same pattern as Monday and wanting to avoid any unpleasantness in case she 'flicked' her wrist -- considering what she had her hand on -- I pushed her hand away and preemptively flopped down on my back in the middle of the bed.

"Oh no," she said with that now familiar 'Cheshire Cat' grin. "It's my turn," and with that, she gestured for me to move over. I slid to the side of the bed, allowing her to flop down in the middle where I had been lying. She swung a leg over me and signaled for me to move back to the center of the bed, dead center between her legs.

"I gave you a French lesson yesterday (meaning Monday), and now it's my turn to see what you've learned," she said as I leaned on one elbow staring directly at the area where her legs met her hips.

"French?" I asked, with that all too familiar 'deer in the headlights' look on my innocent unknowing face.

"Oral sex, eating pussy, muff diving -- I gave you a blow job yesterday, so it's now your turn to return the favor," she cooed seductively.

I wasn't really expecting this. Oh, I'd heard of oral sex of course, but it hadn't even occurred to me that Susan would want me to eat her pussy -- after all, she had been the aggressor in this licentious affair, and I was just the passive, though grateful, recipient.

I'd heard stories of oral sex. However, as far as blow jobs were concerned, it was something good girls just didn't do, only whores and fags. Since Susan was clearly neither, she had undoubtedly blown that theory -- pun intended. But, as for a guy going down on a chick, well that just wasn't manly or macho; it was something lesbians did because they didn't have dicks. Besides, I'd always heard it was dirty, that is after all -- where they pee from. And besides, I've heard it smelled like day-old sushi. I'd even heard that once you get that fish smell on your face, you can't wash it off and everyone would know you went down on a woman.

But -- on the other hand, she sucked my cock with such enthusiasm and loving tenderness, three times no less, once to orgasm and swallowed every drop like it was nectar, so how could I refuse?

As I tried to focus on the task ahead of me, all I could see was a large patch of thick dark curly hair, parted down the middle with a thin wavy ribbon of pink. I placed a hand on each thigh and gently pushed Susan's legs apart to get a better view. Spreading this narrow curvy sliver of color opened to expose a fleshy pink slit that I assumed was the actual pussy opening. I lowered my head until my nose touched the top of her musky opening and cautiously took in a breath.

Humm, that wasn't so bad, I thought. It didn't smell dirty, no piss or sweat or worse. And to be honest, no fish smell. There was a hint of that musty scent of the human crotch, no different than me rubbing my balls and bringing my hands to my face. But for the most part, it just smelled like body wash. We had only two minutes earlier gotten out of the shower, and I personally washed her pussy very thoroughly. So, it dawned on me, that must be why she takes me to the shower first.

I took a little lick, not bad -- in fact, very little taste at all. I took another and then another, each one longer and deeper than the one before. After about three licks, I could hear Susan start to moan, and the longer and deeper the lick, the louder and more pronounced the moaning became. The analogy for sucking a dick I'd heard is like 'sucking on a lollipop,' but I'd never heard of an analogy for licking pussy. Well, now I have one. It's like licking warm vanilla pudding out of a cup -- a deep narrow cup with a hairy rim that is. For it wasn't more than five or six licks when I realized my tongue was getting more and more covered with short curly hairs. Licking her pussy was giving me a hairball.

To not break the rhythm or embarrass her, I tried to swallow them, but there was no way that was going to work. I tried to discretely pick the hairs from my tongue, but by raising my head, even briefly, caused her to open her eyes to see what the matter was. And she instantly recognized the problem.

Dropping her hand to her crotch and running her fingers through her thick mat of curly hair, she said, "Oh Jeremy, I am so sorry. I guess I haven't paid much attention to the rose garden since..." I think she was going to say since Mr. Jenson died, but she caught herself and finished the sentence with, "over the past several years."

I started to say, "Oh, that's okay." But before I could get the first word out of my mouth, she flung her leg back over my head and rolled off the bed. I watched her bare ass cheeks slide up and down as she disappeared into the bathroom. I then heard drawers open and close before she returned moments later with a pair of barber scissors and a hand mirror in one hand and a bath towel in the other.

Upon reaching the bed, she signaled for me to move over as she spread the towel in the center of the bed. She then flopped down squarely in the middle of the towel and swung her leg back over my head. I regained my previous position between her legs as she handed me the scissors.

Taking the scissors and while trying to figure out how to use the thumb guide, she positioned the hand mirror so she could see the region in question and said, "Okay Jeremy, you've proven yourself to be quite the landscaper around here, so let's see how good you are at trimming this bush."

Again, I must have had that stupid puzzled look on my face as she asked, "Have you ever cut hair before?"

"I've groomed the dogs before," I answered.

"Okay, it's the same theory," she said, choking back a smile. "But this is no dog -- it's my kitty -- so I'll help guide you. And as French seems a little foreign to you, I think we should start with some basic Latin."

I must have really looked puzzled, and she was clearly amused by her own cleverness as she continued, "French is rooted in Latin, and I think it would be a good idea to have a proper foundation of the former in order to gain a fuller appreciation of the latter,"

"Okay," I said, not really sure what she was talking about.

"Alright," she said as she ran her hand through the thick triangle of dark hair just above the wavy pink ribbon. "What you probably call the pussy is actually the Vulva, which in Latin simply means the female genitalia or literally the 'wrapper.' It's not the Vagina, as the Vagina is just one specific part of the whole female package between a woman's legs."

Running her fingers through the brown and curlies, she said, "Now Jeremy, this is the Mon Pubis, also known as the Mons Veneris in Latin, which means the Mountain of Venus..."

"Venus is the Roman God of Love," I interjected, wanting to appear that I actually knew something or at least that I was able to keep up with the conversation.

"Yes Jeremy, Venus is the Goddess of Love, the deity of desire, the princess of passion. And every woman possesses a Mons Veneris as her personal testament to her feminism and sexuality." And with that, I think I saw her blush for the first time. Susan's sex life was obviously very important to her and giving it up due to the death of her husband was apparently not an option.

Quickly regaining her composure, she went on to explain, "The Mons is created by a rise in the pelvic bone to allow for childbirth. Men don't give birth to babies, so they don't need the extra room; therefore, it's unique to females."

Brushing her hand back and forth across her hairy mound, she went on to say, "Okay Jeremy, why don't we trim this down to about a quarter inch. Do you think you can do that?"

"Yea, I think so," I said as I started snipping.

"Now be careful Sweetie, very delicate area here," she warned as she clutched the mirror tightly to keep an eye on what I was doing.

It took me just a matter of minutes to reduce the Black Forest covering the mound to the requested quarter inch of growth. Again, running her hand across the freshly shorn region, she said, "Very nice Jeremy, now let's get down to the real business here."

Spreading her legs as far apart as possible, she said, "Now Jeremy, you keep trimming and from here on down clip as close to the skin as possible. But again, be really careful -- very, very sensitive area here," she warned one more time. And still holding the mirror so she could keep an eye on what I was about to cut, she used her free hand to spread her pussy lips. What had been a pink gash was now a pink crevasse with fleshy layers of tissue and other anatomical parts that I had no clue even existed.

"Just below the Mons Pubis are the Labia Majora or the big lips. Now keep trimming."

Probably being somewhat in shock, I must have stopped snipping. Watching this carnal exhibition and continuing to pay attention to my personal groomer's duties was undoubtedly a test of my multitasking abilities. But her warning jolted me back to my primary task at hand -- snip, snip ... snip.

"The outer sides of the Labia Majora are covered with pubic hair, which you are so artfully trimming off," she went on to say. "However, the inner sides are smooth and are lined with glands that secrete lubricant during arousal. Arousal Jeremy, that's your job," she laughed.

"I'm doing the best I can," I replied. Snip, snip ... snip.

"Yes, you are Sweetie -- and you're doing a great job," she said before adjusting her fingers and spreading the outer lips even further. "Spreading the big lips exposes the Labia Minora, Latin for the little lips or the inner lips as they are usually called. The inner lips were once known as the nymphaea, named after the nymphs of ancient Greece, who were famous for their irrepressible libidos and are the origin of the word nymphomania. You've heard of nymphomaniacs, haven't you Jeremy?"

"Oh sure, I've heard of nymphomaniacs," I responded. There was a slight pause like she was going to ask me if I thought she was a nympho, but I didn't want the question as I certainly didn't want to answer it. I quickly eluded the awkward moment with, "So how am I doing?"

She refocused on the mirror to review my progress, "Why you're doing great, no nicks, no blood, and it's looking good, Jeremy, you're a natural."

"Thank you," I said, still having trouble calling her Susan.

"Okay, let's continue," she said. "There are three main organs beneath the two layers of Labia -- lips. There is the clitoris, with its protective hood, the urethra, which may be hard to see, and of course, the actual vagina. We'll get to each in order, but first, there is the matter of the connecting parts."

Snip, snip ... snip.

"The area from where the two layers of lips begins and running down both sides of the clitoral ridge is called the Front Commissure," she first points and then runs her finger up and down the described area. "This area looks like a very distinctive upside-down 'V' and once lubricated, as mine is now; it is highly sensitive to the touch -- by either finger or tongue." She continued running her glistening finger up one side of her clitoral ridge and then down the other.

Trying to listen to every word, watch the demonstration, and safely continue the pubic trimming was keeping me very busy -- but there is no doubt she had my undivided attention. Snip, snip ... snip.