Being left at home for the first time while your parents go out is a big day for a ten-year old boy  when you’re used to babysitters, or being dragged out shopping all afternoon when all you wants is to stay home and play in the yard. 

Some big days turn out bigger than others though, and this one would become the most monumental day of my short life…
 
Middle of summer, beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon.  

My parents had extracted a solemn promise, on pain of death – well, a month’s grounding at least – that I wouldn’t leave the backyard under any circumstances, and (my mom) somewhat reluctantly agreed that I could stay home while they went to do the weekly food shopping. Considering it took about four hours, including the trip to and from town and the afternoon tea they insisted on having, the last thing I wanted to do on a day like that was to traipse round a shopping centre and food hall.  

I wondered round the house, strangely silent and cool with no one else present, as if it now belonged to me, and I was its Master – but the lure of the sun and the basketball hoop in the back yard meant the inspection of my kingdom lasted no more than ten minutes. Before long, dressed in socks, shorts and a tee-shirt I was running around like a demented thing on the asphalt “Court”  my dad had laid the previous summer – a 15´ x 10´  rectangle set between the garage and the lawn, with a hoop set on  a winch so I could raise or lower it as my energy level decreased. I loved to pretend I was the Harlem Globetrotters (yes, that ages me, doesn’t it?) in an exhibition game at The Gardens, only they don’t have to play on asphalt, do they? 

So when I tripped, stumbled, and fell, at full pace, trying to make a rebound, ball in hands, there was nothing to protect my knees as I went down, scraping the left really badly, the right not quite so. I let go a long, loud, “ahhhhhhhhhhhh!”  and finished up half lying, half sitting, on the hot tarmac. It’s all well and good having the run of the house and garden, but I started to cry, hard, at the pain, and harder at the realization that I was alone. No mommy to come running out to soothe her little man. No dad to laugh, gently, and give me strength and courage to deal with the pain. Talk about distraught. 

“Philip, what’s the matter, are you hurt?” 

I looked up, and there, at the fence between our house and our neighbours, the Broomes, was Mrs B., sunglasses raised on her head, and some sort of towelling sun-robe affair. The fence was too high for me to see over, but to an adult, no more than chest high, so that was all I could see of my Florence Nightingale as I desperately tried to stem the choking sobs. I may only be ten, but I want to be a man to a lady, you know? And especially an “old” lady, like Mrs B.

I say old, because she must have been all of forty – but to a ten-year-old… 

I turned my now bleeding knee towards her, and sobbed out that I’d tripped playing hoops. She winced at the sight of my injury (although a knee scrape is hardly an amputation case for a ten-year-old, now, is it?) and told me to stay right where I was, as she was coming round. 

In no time at all, she was there, flip-flops clicking against her feet, a bright, flowery sun robe tied at the waist. She knelt down beside me and ran one hand through my hair, as the other gently checked around the graze on my left knee.  

She smiled down at me, “Nothing broken, but that knee wants cleaning and treating; do you think can you walk?” 

She got down even lower, told me to put an arm around her shoulder, and helped me to my feet. I cried out as I put my weight on my left foot, so she shrugged my arm off her shoulder, slipped her arms under my thighs and around my back, and lifted me effortlessly into her embrace. She smelled of suntan lotion and I could feel how hot she was through the robe – she must have been sunbathing on their deck, that’s why she’d been at the fence so quick when I fell – I could also feel the softness of her chest against mine. In fact, the flimsy robe had shifted in her efforts to lift me, and I realised with a huge flush of embarrassment, and an almost electric jolt to my groin, that she wasn’t wearing any top under it –  she must have been sunbathing topless in the privacy of their garden, and simply pulled it on quickly before she came to see what was wrong.  

My face was inches away from her and I could see as clear as day, for the first time since I was a baby, in the flesh, a gorgeous curved breast – all of it, nipple included – which for some as then unknown reason, I felt an almost overwhelming desire to take in my mouth and suck. Her warm hand felt good on the underside of my legs, too, and the evil, stinging pain somehow diminished as she looked at me, still smiling, apparently oblivious to her exposure, and my growing physical excitement.  

She carried me out of our yard, round the end of the fence, and into her own garden, saying, “come on, let’s get you sorted out, young man”. I couldn’t work out why we weren’t going to my house, and as if reading my mind, she said, “Your mom told me you were home alone, and asked me to keep an ear and eye on you. I don’t know where she keeps your first-aid stuff, and I’m sure you don’t, do you?” I probably did, but oddly enough, I couldn’t think straight right at that moment, all I wanted was to be close to her warm skin – and another thing in my mind was, going to their place, I’d probably get a glass or two of Mrs B’s amazing home-made lemonade – so like I was going to argue to stay at ours!  

She stepped up onto the decking, and gently lay me on the lounger, bending low, this time revealing both breasts to my gaze. A murmur she probably mistook for pain escaped my lips, and it was all I could do to stop myself reaching out to stroke the beautiful mounds of flesh so close to my hands. As the robe parted at her knees, I saw she was wearing tiny blue bikini bottoms, with string ties at the sides.  

On the deck table was a half-empty pitcher of lemonade, and an empty glass, and my attention, it’s fair to say, was divided equally between all the bare skin and touch of my neighbour, and her magical lemonade. Mrs B must have seen my glances, I’m sure, but she chose to remark only on the pitcher. She picked it, and the glass, up. 

“Do you think you’ll be okay for a couple of minutes while I freshen this up, and get the first-aid kit?” she asked. 

My sobs had subsided to sniffs, and she gave me a paper towel from the table. “Wipe your eyes with that, and then hold it on your knee, I’ll be straight back” 

I did as she said, and looked up as she came out through the patio doors, a full pitcher of iced lemonade and two glasses in one hand, a first-aid kit in the other, and watched as she bent down to put everything on the table. Still bending over, she opened the kit, took out some gauze, cleanser, and a pad-bandage, and set them on the table. I couldn’t help looking at her –  her robe was still loosely tied at the waist, but it was open wide at the top, and I could see her lovely breasts so clearly. I felt quite giddy. I liked what I was seeing – and knew very well what was under the bikini bottoms as well. I mean, you show me a ten-year old who hasn’t found at least one of his dad’s Playboy magazines and I’ll show you a kid who hasn’t looked.  

But the breasts in the Playboys were just pictures on paper. These were 100% real and warm and soft-looking and so, so close. I was having a very unfortunate reaction – blame it on the heat – so I shuffled uncomfortably on the seat, and looked away, at the lemonade, trying to concentrate on the pain from my knee, and ignore the warm woozy feeling in the rest of my body, and the growing erection in my shorts. It would be fair to say I had masturbated a few times by then, not all that many, and I knew that the feeling I was having now usually led to my needing to take myself in hand and rub myself until I felt that strange but truly wonderful sensation – but not much chance of that here though, eh?

Mrs B spoke. “Do you like what you see, Philip?” 

I looked at her in horror. She had seen me looking! I felt myself go scarlet and stammered “I, I, I…” 

She merely smiled, picked up the jug of lemonade, raised her eyebrows at it, filled a glass, and handed it to me. She’d meant the lemonade! The relief I felt was like a flood washing over my body. I took the glass, and gulped down half the contents in one go as she knelt in front of me and lifted my left foot on to her right thigh. The giddiness returned in a flash. Her robe fell open, and I saw her bikini bottoms, at the tops of her thighs, tight against her skin. Images of Playboy flashed back into my head, and my throat went sandpaper dry. I took another gulp of lemonade and tried to use the glass, and my cupped hands, to cover what was fast becoming an obvious, if not very impressive erection. You don’t know about thinking horrible thoughts to dampen your ardour when you’re only 10, so I didn’t know what to do but suffer in agony.  

Although I’m quite sure moaning as Mrs B undid my shoelace, and slipped the sneaker and sock off my foot, isn’t what was required. 

She looked up at me in concern. “I’m sorry, did that hurt, baby?” she asked.  

“Oh God, if only you knew”, I thought to myself, but simply answering with an erratic shake of the head, too afraid to open my mouth. 

Leaving my foot on her thigh, she repeated the process with my right shoe, so I now had a foot on each of her thighs, as she knelt before me. I thought I was going to cry. I knew I shouldn’t be thinking these things, but all I could see was her bikini, more clearly now as she had opened her legs more when she had lifted my right foot on to her leg. With my shoes and socks taken off, she took both of my ankles in one hand, and in one motion, slipped on to the lounger beside me, gently swinging me round to face her, lifting my legs and laying them across the tops of her thighs.  

I was totally screwed now.  

I couldn’t balance sitting like that, it was obvious, and the lemonade was in danger of being deposited on one or other or both of us. Mrs B took the glass from my desperate hands, and I had to sit bolt upright to try to cover my discomfort, placing my right arm across my groin area, the other grasping the back of the lounger, behind her back, to support me. 

Mrs B took the first-aid items from the table, and set them down beside her. She then reached her right hand round behind her, took my hand from the back of the lounger, and placed it on her left shoulder. Her lovely, smiling face was inches from mine, and I was now sitting tight against her right side.  

“You’ll need to hang on, it might hurt quite a bit”. 

I watched around her as she poured some antiseptic liquid on a piece of gauze, took my left knee by the underside, and bent my leg, so my foot came to rest between her thighs. She pulled my leg towards her, and I thought I was going to pass out as I felt my foot touch the bikini bottoms.  
My foot was right up against her pussy, and the heat from her body I had felt earlier was nothing compared to how hot she felt – even through the material of her bikini – “down there”. And although I didn’t know, couldn’t be sure, and why would it be? – it felt as if she were actually pressing herself against my foot, and I didn’t move it because it felt good. 

She put her right arm around my shoulder, and pulled me closer to her.  

“Might hurt quite a bit”, she’d said.  

Yeah, right.  

I cried out in agony, and in order to stop my cry becoming a scream, I involuntarily buried my face into Mrs B’s chest, in between the folds of the robe. My face was against her skin, her right hand cradling the side of my face, stroking me, comforting me, shushing me, touching me – turning me on so fucking much my cock actually hurt and my head was swimming. I was sobbing again, but the pain in my knee rather melted away, and the second piece of treated gauze only caused me to tense up, and wince – my left ankle now pushing quite hard against my beautiful nurse’s mound, and my face against her heaving breast. She was breathing quite hard and she kissed the top of my head, continued to stroke my hair, my mouth was against her breast, and she was whispering, “shhh, baby, it’s okay, everything will be fine, don’t worry”.  
I had to run my tongue over my lips because they were so dry from the agony of the ministrations, and as my face was pressed against her flesh, when I did so, not only did my lips feel my tongue, so did she. Or rather her breast did.

Mrs B made a low keening sound as my tongue flicked her, close to her nipple, and even a ten-year old knows when a sound is one of pleasure, so holding my breath I did it again, but this time I licked her breast more than my lips, and a little harder. You could have cut the air with a knife. It was as if everything had stopped.

She didn’t stop what she was doing, she kept kissing my head, stroking my hair, rocking me, saying again, “it’s okay, baby, that’s right, that’s right”. She moved her position slightly, my mouth was there, and it seemed like she was actually offering her breast to my lips. When I felt the pressure of her hand on my head, guiding me, it just seemed like the right thing to do. I opened my mouth, we moved together, and her tit just entered my mouth. I clamped down on it, sucking it into my mouth. Long-forgotten memories came back, suckling, feeding, but this time it was something more than that. Her nipple hadn’t been ‘out’ when I had seen it, but as I suckled, harder, and she moaned, “Oh, my sweet baby, yes, suck it”, I felt it harden in my mouth.  

“Suck it harder, baby, please, suck it harder”, she moaned into my hair, and I did. I suckled as hard as I could and the long “Ohhhhhhhhh”, of pleasure that came from her lips was so loud it made me stop and look around, in fear of someone – Mister B, mostly – hearing, and coming to see what was going on. 
She read my thoughts for the second time that afternoon and told me not to worry, no one was home and the house was empty, but she said it might be a good idea if we went inside, “but only if you want to, Philip…” I looked into her beautiful eyes and nodded, almost frantically. She smiled, told me to hold tight, and lifted me into her arms once again, walking through the open French windows, into the living room, placing me on the sofa, before closing the doors, and turning back to face me. 

She stood in front of me as I looked up at her in unabashed awe, and loosened the robe. It fell open, and she shrugged it off her shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. She stood there, in just the bikini bottoms, her gorgeous breasts in full view.

“Oh man, you’re so beautiful, Mrs Broome”, was all I could think of to say, and I was now practically squirming on the couch, and I knew I was licking my lips, but I couldn’t help it. My young cock really couldn’t have been any harder, and it was extremely uncomfortable in my shorts, so I tried to shift it by pushing it with the heel of my hand, but it didn’t help, and Mrs B dropped to her knees in front of me, placing her hands atop my thighs. 

Looking directly at my shorts, she said, “You look really uncomfortable, Philip, would you like me to help you out with that?” she asked, softly, her fingers stroking my thigh as she did so.  

Again, all I could do was nod dumbly at her, mouth too dry to speak despite my lip-licking, afraid to say something to make this end, and she smiled at me, reaching up to the waistband of my shorts. 

“Lift your butt, baby”, she ordered, and as I did so, she hooked her fingers into my shorts, and yanked them – and my underwear – to my knees. She eased the clothes very gently over my now long-forgotten injury, and there I was, naked from the waist down, my erection standing straight up against my stomach.

Mrs B’s eyes locked on it and she ran the tip of her tongue around her lips. “Lovely, baby”, she whispered.
She managed to tear her eyes away to look at my face, and in a new, huskier, voice, she asked, “does that feel better, darling?” – and got nothing but the dumb, open-mouthed nod once more for an answer as she jumped up on to the sofa beside me, maneuvering us into the positions we had been in on the lounger.
“If you say ‘stop’ at any time, we stop, okay?” she asked me. I must have looked horrified at the idea, and shook my head frantically, and she laughed, a sweet, kind laugh.

She put one hand under my chin, tipped my face up to hers, leaned down and kissed me. Softly. On the lips. A real kiss, my first kiss. With our mouths together, I felt her pulling at my lower lip with both of hers, sort of sucking it slightly, and I felt her tongue against my lips, which caused me, completely subconsciously for I had no experience of this – what ten-year-old boy does?! – to open my mouth. In the space of a second I was enjoying my first ever, full-on, French kiss. I know I was clumsy as hell, I must have been, but she kissed so fucking sexily, so gently, so consumingly, my cock really felt like it was going to burst, and I felt completely drunk, my head no longer swimming, but swirling almost uncontrollably. 

She pulled away from the kiss, stroked the side of my face, and looking down at my stiff cock, quite breathlessly and barely audibly, said, “Do you want me to help you out some more, Philip?”  

I must have looked confused, and she said, “I would really like to touch your lovely cock, if you want me to, and I think you might like it, too”, and moved her hand on to the top of my thigh, her thumb actually brushing lightly against my tight sac, which caused a thousand tiny explosions to go off in my head. I really, honestly, was completely speechless. Which was just as well, because if I hadn’t been, my mouth was again too dry to function, so I gave her such a pleading, acquiescing nod, she could not have mistaken it for anything other than total consent. 

She moved her hand on my thigh, and ran her thumb up my shaft. I think I stopped breathing. It passed up and over the head, her hand enveloped me, and the single most intense feeling of my life shot through me. I cried out and lost all conscious thought except for the unbearable pleasure I was feeling in that instant. I heard Mrs B crooning, “Come on baby, cum for me, cum for me sweet baby”.  

I didn’t know what she meant – I didn’t actually know it was called “cumming”. But I found out very, very quickly. Up until then, the few orgasms I had had, had been dry. They’d felt really good, yes, and I had even had two or three in a row on more than one occasion, but I had never, up to this point, ejaculated. Which apparently is perfectly normal.

That changed, right there, on my neighbour’s sofa, as she stroked my cock in her fist, in a slow, steady rhythm, all the time watching her hand and my cock. “Sweet baby, you feel so good, don’t hold it back, cum for me”. I knew when I was going to orgasm, but I wasn’t ready for what happened. She knew it too, she knew exactly when it was going to happen, and she increased her grip, but not her pace, on my shaft, and let out a long, triumphant, “Yessssssss, baby”, as my cock started to jump in her hand. From the first exquisite touch of her fingers on my shaft to my orgasm was less than a minute.

I knew it was different, but for a second or two, I didn’t know how, until I watched, in total amazement, as the hot sticky fluid erupted from the eye of my cock, shooting into the air. I was in shock. I was cumming, copious amounts of my juices flooding out of my cock, onto my stomach, all over her hand, and she continued to pump my shaft in her fist while she literally milked me dry – or so I thought. Being wanked by this beautiful woman, to my first real orgasm, was the most incredible feeling I had ever known, and I actually started to cry as the last spasms in my body died away.  

She slowly, gently, lay my cock on my stomach, and took me in her arms, as she had on the lounger, pulling me to her chest. Once again she shushed me and stroked my hair, and I could smell the sweet scent of my cum on her skin.  

She pulled me to her breast, and whispered, “Suck me, baby”, and once again I clamped my mouth on the soft, welcoming mound of her tit, sucking the nipple –  harder, as she had told me to – between my lips and teeth.  

“Mmmmm, yes, baby, suck it hard; let me nurse you”, she moaned, and though I didn’t know what she meant, I sucked as hard as I could. I felt her hand come up and cup underneath her breast, adjusting its angle in my mouth, and I carried on sucking, hard, her moans of pleasure driving me on and on, until I tasted it. I actually tasted her milk. She fed me. I milked her tit like a baby, long lost memories paying millisecond visits to my brain, her moans louder and louder, her hand moving from her breast. “Don’t stop, baby, please don’t stop, help me cum!”, she cried. I opened my eyes to see one hand, up to and beyond the wrist, inside her bikini, moving quickly back and forth inside, and I could feel the other hand smearing my cum on my stomach. 

My jaw ached, but I sucked her nipple, and drank her milk like a greedy calf as she rubbed herself faster and harder, until she pleaded with me, “bite it, baby, please, bite it!!”. I did as I was told. I bit down on her nipple – I didn’t know if it was too hard or too soft but she immediately she cried out – I know now in her much loved mixture of agony and ecstasy  –  “Ohhhhh fuck, baby, yes, yes, I’m cumming!”, as her own orgasm hit her.

Throwing her head back she practically screamed, “Unnhhhhhhhh, fuck, yes, yes!!!” Her hips bucked several times, with her hand still inside her swimsuit, and she continued to moan, lowering her face into my hair, moving slower and slower, my sucking diminishing with her hand movements, until she withdrew her hand, and I released her breast from mouth. 

She bent once more to kiss me, another long, wet, tongue-tangling kiss, and I could feel it right down to my loins, my cock again as hard as it had been. 

“Oh my sweet, darling baby, thank you so much”, she said, and with a beaming smile on her face, stroking my cheek with one hand, the other, still wet with my cum she brought to her mouth and licked clean, all the time murmuring “mmmm, yes” . 

I smiled back and squirmed in her lap. 

“Thank you, Mrs Broome”,was all I could say before my mouth was smothered in another kiss…  
 
TBC, maybe…

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