Sir Willy Comes of Age

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My summer of languages learned, and innocence lost

Note to Reader: I have not provided a physical description of Susan (not her real name), one to help protect her identity, but also to allow you, the reader, to insert the older woman of your fantasies the summer you became of age.

Addison is your iconic Norman Rockwell portrayal of classic small-town Mid-America. Literally in the middle of the country, middle of the state, and even in the middle of the county. Even today, Addison is pastorally calm; surrounded in every direction by rolling green fields of corn and soybeans for as far as the eye could see. We were from the big city and moving to such a rural community was certainly a cultural adjustment for the whole family.

My dad was the principal of a typical small-town high school, and my mom was a secretary in a typical small-town bank. I had a sister and brother; we lived on a typical street, in a very typical suburban house, with perfectly typical neighbors.

Our next-door neighbors, the Jenson’s were also a very typical American family. Mr. Jenson was president of the local agriculture CO-OP, which was the most significant business in town and a deacon at the Baptist Church, which just happened to be the largest church in town. Mrs. Jenson was a nurse at the local hospital, and they had two kids, Adam and Rebecca.

The Jenson’s house was a little bigger than ours, and they drove little nicer cars than us, but the really cool thing was they had a pool in their back yard. We had never lived near anyone that had a pool, and the Jenson’s were always open to us coming over and swimming as long as they were home. And Mom was okay with that, as Adam and Rebecca were both Red Cross certified lifeguards, Mrs. Jenson was a nurse, and of course, it kept us outside playing most of the time on summer days.

As Adam was six years older than me, we really weren’t all that close, and besides, he graduated high school two years after we’d moved to town and soon went off to college. On the other hand, when mom and dad went out for the evening, Rebecca was our babysitter of choice. And when our parents would occasionally go out of town overnight together, she was always hired as our live-in nanny. Rebecca knew how to have fun, but she also knew how to keep us out of trouble. She was more than just a good nanny; we looked up to her as a big sister, and my parents almost considered her part of the family.

It was somewhat of an adjustment when she graduated high school and went off to college, but nowhere near the shock of two years later when Mr. Jenson suddenly and unexpectedly died. In fact, the entire town was in shock. I knew Mr. Jenson was a pretty important person, but I really had no idea how important he was until his funeral. The Baptist church, again the largest church in town, was absolutely packed. As the sanctuary filled to capacity, hundreds of people had to sit in the fellowship hall and listen to the service over the PA system. Adam had already graduated college and was an officer in the Navy. Of course, he flew home as did Rebecca, who was attending college in New York. It was good to see Adam and Rebecca, but certainly not under circumstances like this. And it was absolutely gut-wrenching to see Mrs. Jenson under these circumstances as she was almost inconsolable in her grief.

Over the next two years, Mrs. Jenson relied on me more and more for help in the upkeep of her house, at least the exterior. At first, it was just to mow her lawn, but over time I started doing all kinds of handyman chores for her. Besides mowing, I’d weed the flower beds, edge, and sweep the drive and walks, wash her car, clean the gutters and the big one, the one I really loved — pool boy. Within a year after Mr. Jenson’s death, the pool was almost totally in my care. I vacuumed it, skimmed it, kept all the chemicals in balance, and basically made sure it was clean and sparkling blue during the six months a year it was warm enough to use. As fall approached, I would winterize the pool and then in the spring, I would spend weeks getting it back in shape for the summer.

And this is really where my tale of lost innocence begins, but first one more detail about the Jenson house. Besides doing all the lawn and outside maintenance, whenever Mrs. Jenson would leave town overnight, like to go to California to visit Adam or fly to New York to see Rebecca, I’d be hired to take care of the house. I’d bring in the mail, feed the dog, turn lights on and off around the house, and generally keep an eye on the place. This gave me free access to the entire house, which I admit, over time, I took advantage of. It was nothing malicious, it was just innocent curiosity.

Adam’s old room had completely been converted into a guest bedroom. Virtually none of his stuff was left, the closet had been thoroughly cleaned out, and the dresser drawers were empty. Rebecca’s room still had some of her stuff leftover from her high school days, but most of her clothes and personal items were bonus veren siteler gone. In her closet were just the usual things you hate to throw away, but you don’t really take with you when you leave home, like high school letter jackets and prom dresses. In her dresser drawers were pretty much the same things; a few old nightgowns, jeans too tight to wear and old bathing suits from summers gone by. I kept hoping to find anything of an erotic nature, but there was none.

As I became of legal age, I got bolder and eventually decided to check out Mr. and Mrs. Jenson’s bedroom. Now I absolutely never went through my parent’s stuff — never dreamed of it. But for some reason, I simply could not resist the temptation of rummaging through Mrs. Jenson’s most personal effects.

The first thing I noticed was that almost every trace of Mr. Jenson was gone. Now there were the usual family photos around the house, but that was about it. His closet was completely cleaned out, as were his personal grooming things in the bathroom. Even in what I would have assumed had been his dresser drawers and his bedside table, all completely empty and clean. In hindsight, I don’t blame Mrs. Jenson for getting rid of all of his intimate belongings, and I’m sure it was agonizingly painful, but also very necessary.

As for Mrs. Jenson’s things, I didn’t really find any smoking guns there either. I realize how absolutely awful all this must sound, but I had already turned eighteen years old, and I had absolutely no sexual experiences, besides, I was insatiably curious. Plus, to be honest, I simply couldn’t stop myself even though I knew it was utterly wrong. First, I went through her closet. There were the usual dresses, blouses, and skirts for a woman her age. In addition to the typical nurses’ outfits, both scrubs and old-style white uniforms that I assume were from her college days. In her dresser were all of the ordinary things you’d expect, bras, granny panties, slips, nightgowns, a few bathing suits — but again nothing even remotely sexy, just the usual ‘mom’ type stuff.

Did I feel guilty about snooping? Well, of course, I did, but it didn’t stop me from going through her bathroom cabinets anyway. And yet again, I was somewhat disappointed. There were the usual hair and dental care stuff, soaps, perfumes, and makeup, but nothing that would tweak the imagination of a young adult male. No ‘feminine hygiene’ products or devices, no contraceptives, no ‘personal lubricants’ — nothing that would have made the risk of being caught worthwhile. And yes, I felt really guilty, but none the less, inquiring minds had to know and I was disappointed, but satisfied.

By the time I was a senior in high school, and had celebrated my eighteenth birthday, it had been two years since Mr. Jenson’s death. And in those two years, Mrs. Jenson relied on me almost exclusively for the maintenance of her yard and pool. She paid me $10 per hour, which was well above the local standard for such labor at the time, and we developed a wonderful working relationship. Friends and neighbors, I guess you’d say.

On the opening weekend of spring break my senior year, Mrs. Jenson called me at home and asked if I was available during the Spring Break. I told her, of course, I was available and what could I do for her. She reminded me that the pool cover was still over the pool, and she wanted to get the pool ready for summer. She also reminded me that the pool had not been drained in years and that it was time to completely empty the pool, thoroughly clean it and then refill it with fresh water. She also thought the whole process would take several days and suggested that we start first thing Monday morning. I agreed and told her I’d be over bright and early Monday morning.


Monday morning, as I opened the gate to her back yard, she was already working on getting the cover off the pool. I immediately ran over to assist her and within five minutes, the cover was off and lay neatly folded on the edge of the deck. And she was right about the pool, it looked pretty awful. The water was a very dark green, smelled bad, and the tile around the perimeter was black with mold. We started the backwash immediately and as she had already bought chemicals to clean the tile, I sat down to read the instructions while the pool began to drain.

Mrs. Jenson returned to her work in the flower beds as I sat to read. She was dressed in plain white shorts that extended to just above the knee and a sleeveless light blue top. She was at least thirty years my senior, but I always considered her an attractive woman. I tried to keep my thoughts on what I was reading, but I admit my eyes frequently glanced her way, especially as she bent at the waist to pick weeds and winter’s debris from the flower beds.

Within an hour, the pool level was down several feet. I slipped off my shoes and entered the shallow end of the pool and started scrubbing the tile as described on the chemical package. bedava bahis Cleaning the tile was a two-step process. First, I had to scrub the tile grout to remove years of mildew stains. Then after rinsing a section at a time, I had to apply a separate solution to remove the hard water line of lime that had built up on the tile over many years. The process was harder than I expected, and by eleven o’clock, I had only finished about ten linear feet of tile.

Mrs. Jenson had apparently finished what she was doing in the flower beds. She threw the last of the weeds and twigs into the compost pile, and as she turned and walked toward me, she pulled off her gloves and dusted the dirt from her knees. As I glanced her way and watched as she approached, again I thought to myself how attractive she was.

“Jeremy,” she asked, “would you like some lemonade?”

I quickly looked up from the pool to make eye contact, while pretending I hadn’t taken my eyes off of her all morning. “Yes, that would be great, thank you,” I quickly responded.

She smiled, and as I went back to my work, she disappeared into the house.

I’m not sure how much time past, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, before she reemerged from the house with a tray of lemonade as promised. But that was not the shocker. I was stunned to see that she had also changed clothes. She was no longer in shorts and a blue top; she was now wearing a white macramé bikini and a white linen beach cover-up that was unbuttoned and really not covering that much up to begin with.

At this point, I had known Mrs. Jenson for eight years and I had never seen her wearing anything so revealing. The bikini was much more like something Rebecca would wear, not Mrs. Jenson. Not a woman with two grown kids, but there she was. In fact, I’m not sure I’d ever seen her in a two-piece before. I tried to keep my mouth from flopping open, but I’m not sure how successful I was, as she had a pretty knowing grin on her face as she squatted in front of me to hand me a glass of lemonade.

I accepted the glass and probably nodded a feeble thank you, but I really doubt I verbalized anything more than a grunt. She smiled, perhaps trying not to laugh, and after standing back up, turned gracefully, and walked to the nearest chaise lounge — which not surprisingly was situated directly in front of me.

She placed the tray on a nearby table, removed her cover-up, and began to spread a towel over the lounge chair. All the while she had her back to me and was bent at the waist. Needless to say, I could not keep my eyes off that unbelievably sexy ass that was bent over in front of me and covered only by the small patch of knotted white fabric and to be honest, was simply not covering all that much.

I should add, the bathing suit was probably lined. It wasn’t just merely macramé, but the lining was as close to her natural skin color as possible, so it certainly gave the impression of being nothing but small patches of loosely knotted strings — which only served to spark my youthful imagination even more.

Once the towel was arranged to her liking, she sat down, laid back with her feet toward me and began rubbing suntan lotion all over her body — up and down her arms, her belly and most alluring, her legs. Ever so slowly, first one leg from her foot to her — you know where — and then slowly down the other leg.

All the while, I was trying to keep my attention on the tile, but inevitably, one eye stayed on the job at hand while the other eye was glued to her every move, which was clearly being done to draw and keep my attention. And it was certainly working as my pecker was as hard as the concrete pool I was hanging on to.

Pondering the circumstance, I found myself in, I kept thinking, what in the hell am I doing? I’d never thought of Mrs. Jenson in this way. She was Adam and Rebecca’s mom, I’d known her since we’d moved to Addison, and she’s my mom’s friend and neighbor. My God, she’s my mother’s age; oh wait, she’s probably older than my mom. Adam is six years older than me — so Mrs. Jenson is perhaps five or six years older than my mom. And Adam has already graduated from college and married. He may be a dad by now and that would make Mrs. Jenson a grandmother. Jeez, how in the hell could I be lusting over a grandmother?

I forced myself to look away and redoubled my effort on the tiles. For the next hour or so, that was precisely what I did. Clinging to the edge of the pool with one arm and diligently scrubbing tile after tile with my free hand, stopping only occasionally to rinse and reapply additional cleaning solution.


“Yes,” I responded.

“Would you mind doing something for me?”

Without hesitation, I leaped from the pool and walked towards her. She was still lying in the same position, on her back, eyes closed, feet slightly spread and oiled up like a Thanksgiving turkey ready for the oven. I assumed she wanted me to get something from the house when I asked, “What can deneme bonus I get you?”

She slowly opened her eyes and turned her head towards me. Squinting as her eyes adjusted to the noonday sun, she said, “Would you mind rubbing my back with lotion?”

I have to admit, despite hours of lustful thoughts, I was a little startled by the request. Searching for words, I managed to stutter, “Sure.”

She reached for the suntan lotion and as she handed it to me, she sat up, dropped the head of the lounge chair, so it laid flat and then rolled over on to her stomach. I was glad she wasn’t looking my way as I’m sure I had that dumb ‘deer in the headlights’ look on my face, not to mention a bulge in my wet bathing suit, while I stood there momentarily frozen in insecurity over how to respond.

As my brain raced to make sense of the situation, I was thrown an even bigger curveball when she reached behind her back with both hands and unhooked her bikini top. As her hands fell to her sides, so did the straps. Sensing I had to start moving, I pulled up a chair next to her and sat down. I wasn’t sure if I should squirt the lotion directly on to her back, or warm it in my hands first, but believing time was of the essence, I opted for directly on her back and instantly questioned my decision as she involuntarily reacted to the cold lotion. However, she didn’t say a word, so I guess no harm no foul.

I placed one hand on each shoulder and began to rub. It was only a matter of seconds before I began to hear soft moans of pleasure. Okay, I guess I’m doing this right. And as my hands moved down her back, the soft moans became more and more like little whimpers of pleasure. Since I was clearly sailing uncharted waters, these sounds of satisfaction gave me much needed confidence.

I reapplied lotion several times and slowly worked my way down her back. As my hands reached the top of her bikini bottoms, I decided I’d better start at the top again. She let out an audible sigh of disapproval as my hands left the small of her back, but a purr of satisfaction immediately followed as I placed my oily hands around the back of her neck and began to massage again.

Though I totally loved massaging her neck, shoulders, and back, after about two or three minutes, I felt I was probably done. I removed my hands for what I thought was the last time and said, “Okay, I guess that’s it.”

To which she responded, “Would you mind doing my legs too.”

I didn’t say anything, but reapplied lotion to my hands and started near the top of one leg and began slathering lotion all the way to her toes. I then started on the other leg at her toes and began working my way back up. I stopped about three inches from the bottom of her bathing suit and wiping the oily lotion from my hands on her towel, I said, “Okay, you’re all buttered up.”

She gave a short laugh and said, “Thank you, Jeremy.” As I got up and headed back to the pool. I wanted to slap her ass and even though I’m sure she would have loved it, I resisted.

As I lowered myself back into the nearly empty pool, she called out, “Jeremy, give it twenty more minutes, and we’ll call it a day. I have another little project in the house I’d like you to look at.”

I was sick and tired of scrubbing tile, and I quickly shouted back, “That will be great.”

I was under the diving board, and probably more than halfway finished when I heard her call, “Jeremy, how are you doing?”

“Oh fine, Mrs. Jenson — I’m probably over halfway done,” I answered.

“Well, why don’t you quit the pool for the day and let me show you this other project.”

“Sure,” I said as I crawled out of the nearly empty pool. I quickly gathered my brushes, rags and chemicals and placed them neatly on the picnic table. I then rinsed the final section of tile I’d been working on, rinsed off my bare feet and loosely coiled the hose.

I followed her into the house and then into her bedroom. Except for my little secret scouting trips, I’d never been in her bedroom before, and it felt a little weird. A moment of panic swept through my mind as it occurred to me that maybe I’d done something to get caught, and she was about to confront me with the evidence. But that thought quickly passed as we walked through the bedroom and into her bathroom, where she grabbed my hand and yanked me into the shower with her.

She took the hand-held shower off its wall bracket, pointed it towards the corner of the shower and turned on the water.

“See,” she said, pointing to the spray as it hit the shower wall.

I stood there, waiting for the rest of the sentence.

“See, the showerhead is clogged with calcium. Do you think it could be cleaned with the Lime-Away you’re using on the pool?”

She turned the showerhead slightly so I could see the spray. It did look a little misaligned, but not really all that bad. “Yea, I guess so,” I slowly responded.

With that, she pointed the showerhead squarely at my chest and then quickly snapped it back to the corner. But in that split second, my T-shirt was totally soaked. The water was still cold and I’m sure I had a stunned look on my face. But she had a huge ear to ear Cheshire cat grin on hers. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

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