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  • Every Monday After School

Every Monday After School

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Author's note: The following story is about young lust and mature longing, narrated by an unreliable teenager who thinks sex first in all matters at all times, with little regard to consequence. All characters, both real and imagined, are eighteen years or older.

* * * * *

When I stopped hearing the sexy feminine click clack of heels on the hardwood floor upstairs I should have known I was in trouble. Instead, I held my breath and listened for footsteps on the stairs or any possible sound that might indicate Mrs. Taylor's presence in the basement. After a few moments of not hearing anything I assumed I was safe and went back about my business.

I was alone, waiting for my friend Jason to get home from school, and by 'business' I mean I was splayed out on his bed, completely naked, and masturbating myself into a frenzy while I thought about his mom upstairs in her short sky blue sundress and her noisy sandals, her flowing auburn hair and her milky white cleavage barely containable by her push-up bra. Mrs. Taylor's bra had the extreme lift I love in a push-up bra. I didn't have to actually see it to know it was plush padded with underwire cups and, most likely, infinity edges to help hide it underneath her silky dress.

If I'm interested in a subject I don't mind putting in the necessary research. The history of lingerie, of nylon, satin, lace and silk, of how all the sheer fabrics came to be designed and developed in all their sexy incarnations, has always fascinated me. Most guys my age are into porn on the internet. I prefer my extensive collection of Victoria's Secret catalogues. I'm not judging anybody. I just want to put it out there. I'm serious about the subject. I know about all kinds of bras and the one Mrs. Taylor was wearing made me want to beg for mercy and send me to my knees.

Ever since I've known her, almost five years now, Mrs. Taylor's been all about the tease, but on this Monday afternoon her breasts just wanted to be seen, they were anxious and needy, looking for any excuse to burst out over the top of her low-cut dress. Her nipples were talking to me. They had all of my attention. I could tell they wanted to be suckled.

I'm almost always agitated and oversexed, so naturally I like all kinds of nipples and I don't really care if they're puffy or not, but the fact is Mrs. Taylor has outstanding nipples and nature happened to make her's the puffy kind, the kind where the areolae puff out like little protruding hills above the natural curvature of her breasts, and when she smiled at me not twenty minutes ago when I knocked on her front door, they were poking out all hard and sexy and pressing into her bra, showing off their bulging shape against the fabric of her dress. If you want the truth, her aggressive nipples were the reason I was now naked and unable to control myself, my hand curled around my cock.

I shouldn't say it's all about her nipples, that's not quite true. She wants me to love her pussy too. I know she does. Why else would she be baking cookies? Why else would she be wearing that wispy and sexy little dress?

The smell of the oatmeal cookies she was baking in the oven drifted down to me and I imagined that must be exactly what her pussy would be like, exactly how intoxicating she would be if she were to let me kiss myself into her, just for maybe five minutes allow me to bury my face into her transparent pink lace panties and let her warmth and her wetness flow free.

I can't help it. This is the way I always think. These are my thoughts and dreams of sex and Mrs. Taylor. I do know they're just dreams. In the real world, I'm eighteen and still somewhat naive about most things sexual. I think about it constantly, but honestly, I have no clue about the aroma of her pussy or what color panties she might be wearing. I'm not a virgin, strictly speaking, but my time spent inside actual pussy, counting all my girlfriends, totals minutes, nowhere close to even one single hour. That's not a number or a time frame I like to advertise, by the way, so the less said about it the better.

Right now, on a beautiful California spring day in May, three weeks from graduation, my thoughts of Mrs. Taylor have me naked in the cool air of her basement, her heels clicking on the floor directly above me not ten feet away. Jason and I are both high school seniors, and for the past month I've spent at least an hour every Monday afternoon after school waiting for him to get home from band practice. He plays the saxophone and his practice runs late every Monday. I'll tell you why later. It's not that important. The thing is, I wait for him in his basement. And dream about his mom.

I'm not embarrassed. I don't feel the need to explain everything, but for those that care, I'll summarize the previous three Monday's and how they led me down the road of debauchery, of ending all my inhibitions, and how I came to be completely naked on my best friend's bed. . .

* * * * *

The first Monday I watched some boring movie on television in the family room downstairs while Jason's mom walked around and did her mom activities upstairs. Never once did she venture down to check on me. I realized then and there I could be doing other things. Anything really. Like most guys my age I'm way over the line of oversexed, so it just popped into my head, why not start to play a dangerous and sexy game?

The next Monday I went into his bedroom straight away and sat on the edge of the bed. The kitchen is directly above Jason's bedroom. I laid back on the bed and thought about Mrs. Taylor. I unbuttoned my Levi's, lifted my hips off the bed, and pushed my jeans and my boxer briefs down tight around my thighs. The door to the bedroom was only partially closed. I left it that way so I could hear Mrs. Taylor if she were for some reason to start stepping down the stairs, but also because, I admit it, I liked the idea of being caught. It was exhilarating to think she might walk in and see me all exposed, my torso naked, my raging hard on poking straight up toward my head.

Still, at least on that day, I was afraid to masturbate to completion and make that distinct and discoverable mess. I was afraid the scent of my sperm would be obvious in the aftermath. It's not just the telltale milky goo. I know from years of practice, even the air in a room gets heavy and humid when my body glistens with musky sweat and cum gets sprayed all around. So I settled for lightly running my fingers up and down the length of my shaft. I pretended my fingertips were her lips and I made Mrs. Taylor kiss my cock. I teased myself right to the edge for close to an hour until I finally heard Jason at the upstairs door. I had to quickly dress. I knew what I was doing was more than a little crazy. That this out of control exposure, this pulling my pants down and showing off my cock outside of the controlled privacy of my own bedroom, it had to be a one time thing.

It's not hard to guess that my reservations faded with each day that passed and as the weekend turned into a new week. Anticipation soon overcame common sense.

The next Monday I came prepared with lotion and two absorbent paper towels and I went into his bedroom like I didn't have a choice. I wanted the thrill of being exposed again with Mrs. Taylor above me just a flight of stairs away. Without any hesitation, I pulled my t-shirt above my chest, pushed my shorts, this time I was wearing khaki cargo shorts, down around my ankles and let my hands wander free. I left the door wide open. My only concern this time was to make sure I finished before Jason came home.

I stroked myself quickly and came much faster than normal, much faster than if I were home alone in my own bed. I knew what I was doing. A boundary was being crossed. Mrs. Taylor was only maybe twenty steps away, I could hear her voice talking on the phone as I masturbated, her closeness, her sexy full throated laughter intensified my orgasm and gave me goosebumps as I came. I was delirious. Everything went so smooth I laughed out loud. I had plenty of time to clean up and cover all my tracks. Obviously, I now saw no reason not to continue the following week. I even thought of ways to escalate. . .

* * * * *

So there you have it and here I am. Back to the present Monday with Mrs. Taylor upstairs in her short little blue sundress and her high heeled sandals and me in Jason's bedroom. It's easy to understand why this time I had every confidence I could never be caught. I was experienced. I knew what I was doing. An established pattern was in place.

I took my time and slowly undressed. I carefully folded my t-shirt, my shorts and my boxer briefs, and placed them on the bedside table. I stood for several minutes in the open doorway, stark naked, exposed and alone with Mrs. Taylor right upstairs. I walked out into the family room. I stretched and looked down at myself. I'm in good enough shape, maybe a little lean, but solid and strong and firm from the years spent in my garage with my free weights developing muscle tone. I'm still growing but last time I checked, maybe a few months ago, I was six-foot-one and one-hundred-seventy pounds. It may sound strange, but times like this, when I get naked, I get turned on by my own body. Virtually every time I take my clothes off I get an erection and right now my cock was as hard and stiff as I'd ever seen it. The cool basement air made my balls tingle. I was ready for anything.

I walked to the foot of the stairs and peered around the corner. Mrs. Taylor was down the hallway near the kitchen and standing with her back to me. She had her hands on her hips and looked like she was lost in thought, her head tilted to one side. I saw her bare calves flex and I knew she was turning around. She was turning and I knew she was about to see me. I wanted her to see me. I wanted her to see my erection and know that it was all for her. Instead, I chickened out, I leaned back just in time and held my breath. She walked toward the stairs. She was close. So close I could hear her breathing and smell her perfume. Then I heard her turn and walk away. Back toward the kitchen.

With my heart pounding in my chest, I made my way back to the bedroom. I had to focus, so I thought about Mrs. Taylor's nipples, how if she were here with me she would playfully ease the straps of her dress from her shoulders and arch her back, showing off, exposing herself to me. She would smile at me and say she wanted to prove that they were puffy and ready to be kneaded. I sat down on the bed and listened to the sounds of her footsteps clattering against the kitchen floor. Mrs. Taylor baking cookies, the aroma drifting down the stairs, and me exactly where I wanted to be, starting to rub the head of my cock, reveling in the extreme hardness in my hand. I rolled onto my back, a glob of lotion turning my palm and fingers into an ever tightening and clinching version of her pussy.

I thought about the hem of her short blue dress and her long sinewy legs, her creamy thighs, the muscles of her hamstrings taut yet tender to my tongue. I imagined kissing the back of her knees as I began to thrust my cock in and out of my hand, over and over I went, slick and lubricated and with rhythmic strokes, working myself into a fury, my hands hot and tight and out of my control, the lotion easing the way, my fingers a perfect copy of her cunt. Mrs. Taylor was calling out to me, coaxing me to get still harder, to fill her and to fuck her, she told me to do anything I wanted to her sexy naked body. She wanted me inside her bald pussy. Mrs. Taylor shaved her pussy. I knew she did. I knew she had a tight glistening little bald cunt. I knew she shaved it just for me.

I closed my eyes and heard myself begin to moan. Both hands gripping and squeezing, I imagined the purple head poking free, staring up at me. I was sweating now, the room was spinning, my climax building, my heart pounding. I couldn't wait to see my cum. I was at that point of no return where white cream shows itself in spurts, like ribbons of confetti streaming through the air, uncontrollable and without guidance it can splatter anywhere. I didn't care anymore. I opened my eyes. I wanted to see it, I wanted to feel it, to actually hear it pulsating out like milk from a squirt gun, the silvery shards of sperm shooting all over me. I was about to give myself a hot sperm bath and nothing could stop me now.

I looked down at my cock. I felt the cum building inside and about to gush. I don't know why but I also felt something else, something uneasy and unsettling. A presence. Another set of eyes.

I looked up at the open door and saw Mrs. Taylor wide-eyed and staring at me. Her clear brown eyes flashing into mine. We both froze. And then, without any more encouragement or even the slightest motion from my hands, it all just happened. I was spurting and spraying, first up to the side of my face and then a squirt into my chin and one more coating my chest in a glaze of hot white cream, and then finally one last spurt. I don't even know where it landed. I was delirious. My cheeks flushed red. I thought I might burst into tears. My cum was everywhere.

"Oh my. . ." Mrs. Taylor said. "Oh my, goodness. . . Jonah? What are you doing?"

"It's not. . . it's not what it looks like. . . I don't know. . . I don't know what I'm doing," I stammered.

I couldn't help it. I was back at it. Back to squeezing on my cock.

But she was already gone. I finally put my hands up to my head and covered my face. I couldn't bring myself to see anymore or think about what I'd done. The world may as well have been ending. . .

I heard the faucet running in the adjacent bathroom.

"Oh shit," I mumbled into my hands. "I am so dead."

The mattress rocked beneath me. I looked through my fingers and saw Mrs. Taylor sitting down on the side of the bed beside me. I reached down with both hands to cover myself.

"Really, Jonah? You hardly need to bother."

"What? . . . Why?. . ."

Mrs. Taylor just smiled. She had a warm, wet washcloth in her hand and purposely went about cleaning the cum from first my face. . .

"You really went to town down here, didn't you?" She smiled at me, kindness and understanding in her eyes.

She was leaning over me, her cleavage looked so cozy all pressed together in her push up bra, her hard nipples outlined against her dress. Were her nipples never not hard and poking out and wanting to be seen?

"Went to town?" I said.

She wiped the silvery white cream from my chin. . .

"That's a lot of cum for such a young man. Really such a mess, don't you think?"

"I guess so. . . That's how much I always cum, Mrs. Taylor."

I was starting to relax. Maybe the world was not ending after all.

"Well then, it was smart to take your clothes off, wasn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am. I guess it was."

"My, aren't you polite?" she laughed. "And such a hard and sexy body, Jonah. Really, such a darling boy."

Her eyes twinkled at me. She has the deepest brown eyes. I blinked at her to see if I could blink her away. To see if I was dreaming. When she wouldn't go away I felt my cock stirring back to life. Already stirring back to life.

"Now, listen to me, Jonah. We have to understand each other." She reached own and held my hardening cock in her hand. "Are you listening?"

"I'm trying. I'm trying to listen," I somehow managed to say. I was sure my voice cracked. My throat was dry. My cock now suddenly rock hard in her hand.

"We have to get you cleaned up and dressed. Jason will be home soon. We can't have him find us here like this, can we?"

"Should we lock the door?"

I was ready to run upstairs and lock all the doors. I was sure she wanted to be fucked right then and there. I don't know why I thought that. She did say I should get dressed. But now her hand was stroking on my cock and I was moving into it, lifting my hips off the bed. I wanted to cum for her again. Only this time deep inside her perfect little cunt. I was sure she had a perfect little cunt. I reached up and cupped a breast. I rubbed a finger over the fabric of her dress and bra, her hard nipple underneath.

"No dear, that's not what I mean."

"Why not?"

She laughed. "I just told you, Jonah. Are you the kind of man that never listens?" She sounded serious now. "Because I'm tired of that."

"I'm listening," I said. "I just don't understand. What are we doing? That's what I don't understand."

I really didn't get get it. I have a hard enough time trying to understand girls my own age. Apparently, older women operate on a completely different frequency. Why was she stroking me if she didn't want to fuck? Mrs. Taylor was very attentively stroking on my cock. In fact, her grip had tightened, she was pumping hard now, skillfully using my precum as lubricant.

"What don't you understand?" Mrs. Taylor said, her face flushed. "We don't have much time. You have to get going."

Mrs. Taylor was wearing ruby red lipstick. She was pursing her lips at me. I think she was daring me to kiss her, but she had a hungry look in her eyes that startled me, and I hesitated. I still wasn't sure what was happening. She was being aggressive with her hands and cautious with her words.

Then at last she said something that made sense to me. At last her words finally caught up with her hands. . .

"I like how fast you got so big and hard, Jonah. I'm impressed. Do you think you can cum again?"

"I do think so. . . I mean, I know I can."

"Then you should, dear. I want to see you up close this time."

I loved the feeling of being naked and exposed for Mrs. Taylor. The feeling of her being in complete control, of being naked while she watched me, while she was still bottled up in her sexy dress. I loved showing myself off for her, showing off my erection, arching myself off the bed. I started to moan for her. I was trembling. My entire body felt like it would explode.

"I can't always know where. . . I may not be able. . . Oh my god, Mrs. Taylor, that feels so good."

I wanted to cum all over her. I was trying to warn her first. So she wouldn't be mad when I squirted into her face and all over her dress. I wanted to make a creamy mess all over Mrs. Taylor.

"Don't worry, Jonah. You can give in to it. I'll take care of everything this time."

Without any kind of warning she reached down with her free hand and cupped my balls and pressed a finger against my ass. Her fingernail scratched at me. Mrs. Taylor has long fingernails, clear-coated with a shiny acrylic polish. She didn't seem to care. She inserted a finger into me anyway. I tightened on her finger. Everything about me tightened against her hands.

"Look at you. Such a naughty boy," she growled at me. "You can't help it can you? Getting so hard for me, calling me down here, making me stroke your cock and fuck my finger into you?"

I wish I could make her do other things, all kinds of things, but I was too far gone. I could only moan. Thrust and moan for her.

"Such a masturbator, Jonah. Down here like this. What could you be thinking? Was it me, dear? Was it me in your head while you were fucking on yourself, your big cock in your hand?"

A calmness settled over me. I realized my orgasm was still building. All my edging practice was paying off. This might actually be meant to last.

"It's always been you, Mrs. Taylor. I'm sorry, I can't help it."

"It's alright, honey. I like it," she blushed. A sexy blush to both her cheeks. "I knew what you were doing all along. Masturbating down here. Fucking yourself. Jerking your cock for me. Working it in and out of your hands. Such a naughty boy. Thinking about me while you masturbate."

"I know. I do. I always do."

"It's okay. I want you too, Jonah. I want you inside me. Such a hard throbbing cock fucking me. Would you like that? Your big cock inside my tight cunt?"

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