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From: Joe <jumpinjoe@my-deja.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Paperboy = F/m, first time
Date: Sun, 27 Aug 2000 07:10:02 -0400
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Feedback means a lot to me, i love to write and love to write customized
stories to individuals (especially women). If you are under 18 don't
read this and don't write to me--we have nothing to talk about.
For the rest of you... I hope you enjoy the following. And in case you
were wondering, yes I was a paperboy and yes there was a Mrs. Bouchard
and yes parts of this story are true. I'll let you guess which parts...
**********************
The best job I ever had was that of a newspaper delivery boy. I did
this job for 6 years--from age 10 till age 16 (I lied when I first took
the job and told them I was 12). It was hard labor to be sure, hauling
pounds upon pounds of newspapers from one household to another--
especially for a 10 year old. But it had its benefits. Who knew that
suburbia could harbor such perverted secrets?
I didn't start to catch on till I was about 13 years of age (three
years, utterly wasted!). As the hormone changes kicked in I started to
notice all sorts of new and exciting things. For example, one of my
customers, whose son I was in the same class with, would invariably show
up to the door in a bathrobe on collection day. Ahh... Mrs. Bouchard.
Every Thursday afternoon I would show up to collect and every thursday
afternoon she would be wearing a terry robe that failed to cover just
the right amount of flesh to drive a pubescent boy out of his mind.
Only several years later did I realize that Thursdays were the days that
Kirk (her son) had baseball practice and didn't get home till late.
Mrs. Bouchard always gave such generous tips I made a point to give her
the best newspapers (i.e., the ones the neighborhood cats hadn't peed
on) and the best service. This is even before I knew what cleavage was,
so you can well imagine the service she got afterwards. I would try to
engage her in conversation on collection days and she would often give
me one of her brilliant, all-knowing smiles (accompanied, more often
than not, by a welcome glimpse of her copious cleavage) followed by
payment and a wave goodbye, much to my disappointment. But one August
afternoon everything changed.
It was in the high 90s, if not 100 degrees. It was literally hot as
hell (well, who knows if that is literal or not). I rang her bell and
can honestly say that I cared not a whit about sex at that time. I was
just hot. Hot, tired, thirsty and more than anything, hot! She came to
the door wearing a haggard, sweaty expression that spoke of her own
trials in the heat. It seemed she had forgotten that this was
collection day and was not at all prepared. She didn't have the money
ready, but would I come back after I had finished my route. Sure, I
said, not a little disappointed. I had wanted to cut across the woods
and make it to the air-conditioned sanctity of my own home as soon as
possible, but one did not turn down Mrs. Bouchard. There was something
more than a little sexy about her sweat-coated countenance.
So I finished my route and stumbled (yes, it really was that hot) back
to her house and rang the bell. It seemed that she thought it best to
wash the sweat off her body (how lovely it was I could only imagine) as
she answered the door in her signature bathrobe. Only this one was
different. It was much, much shorter. High above her knees, the hem of
the robe reached down to a point infuriatingly close to where one
imagined the pubic hair might begin. If only, only she would bend over!
Those were the elevated thoughts going through my mind when she invited
me in for some lemonade. Like I would have refused!
Kirk, I discovered, was at camp. He would be there for two fun-filled,
wholesome weeks. Too bad. Mrs. Bouchard sat at the kitchen table,
pitcher of lemonade in one hand, beer in the other. Each time she
reached over to refill my glass that terry robe worked itself a little
loser, each time I saw a little more of those bountiful breasts revealed
to my gaze. Needless to say I drank a ridiculous amount of lemonade.
She seemed to be getting bored so I decided that if I didn't speed
matters up a little I would be in danger of being sent home like a
little boy before anything "important" was revealed to me (and I was
getting so painfully close to something that I thought might be an
aureole). I asked her if I could taste her beer.
She stopped, her arm (the beer arm) in mid-air and looked at me. She
seemed to look at me a lot closer than she usually did. I squirmed a
bit under her gaze but there was also something vaguely erotic about it.
Without quite knowing why, I got a solid-steel erection just from that
gaze.
"Have you ever had a beer before?" She asked. I explained, truthfully,
that I had sipped some of my dads, but never *really* had a beer. Its
just that it looked so cool, especially on a day as hot as this...
She looked me over once again and quietly handed me the sweaty bottle.
"This is just between us, you know. I could get in a lot of trouble for
giving you this."
Oh sure, Mrs. Bouchard. I would never tell anyone, I promised (falsely,
it would seem) as I grasped the beer and took a hefty swig.
It was not good beer. In retrospect I can only think that Mrs. Bouchard
was a hardcore alcoholic to be drinking beer as foul as that, but at my
age any beer would have tasted foul, and any alcoholic female would have
seemed attractive. I drank as much as I could before I could feel the
bile start to rise--at which point I wisely stopped. I handed the beer
back to Mrs. Bouchard--I swear I could see something dark, like a
shadow, start to peek out from around her breasts, from her gown.
Though I returned to lemonade I could feel the beer start to work on me-
-again this is all retrospective. I became bolder. I even told Mrs.
Bouchard that I thought she was the prettiest woman on my paper route.
At that she stiffened a little.
"What about Mrs. Moore?" She asked.
"Oh, you are much better looking than her! She's flat as a board and
you have such big--!"
it was at this moment that I started to realize I was saying far more
than I should.
"Such big what?" Mrs. Bouchard asked with what I now know to be a
superior, mischievous grin.
"Well... you know... She doesn't have such big... and you have nice, uh
big, uh..."
"Breasts?"
The word, which itself seemed dirty to me at that age, caused me to
blush a deep crimson. Yet I couldn't ignore those eyes, their
penetrating gaze as Mrs. Bouchard bored into me. So, not really knowing
what the hell I was doing, I nodded yes. When in doubt, be honest.
Right?
Mrs. Bouchard smiled a slow, lazy smile. "You really think I have nice
breasts?" Of course I had little option but to nod yes again (at any
rate, she really did have incredible breasts, even for a middle-aged
alcoholic).
"Would you like to see more of them?" She asked, leaning toward me in
such a way as to cause the full breasts to fall forward, the cleavage
that revealed itself making my eyes bulge. Of course my throat was
completely dry in an instant and I was physically incapable of speech.
I could only nod most enthusiastically.
And this is the moment where being a paper delivery boy became
worthwhile. She stood up, her sweaty butt peeling (no doubt) from the
vinyl seat of the kitchen chair as her white terry robe slid from her
shoulders down to her ankles. My jaw dropped. Just like in cartoons, I
saw each fiber of the terry cloth slip down her pale flesh, across the
pink of her areola, catching slightly on her firm nipples, down her flat
stomach, across the white cotton panties to pool around her ankles in a
pile of sensuality the likes of which I had never experienced. Mrs
Bouchard was standing before me, in the summer of my 13th year, topless.
And she was magnificent.
"What do you think?" She asked and of course I replied that she was
magnificent. "Would you like to touch them?" I did not respond with
words but with my hands. The newspaper print rubbed off my darkened
hands onto her sweaty nipples as I slid my palms across her, reminded
for all the world of eraser nubs on a newly purchased pencil. The warm
heaviness of her breasts surprised me. I hadn't expected them to be so
corporeal. I lifted them with one hand then the other. Comparing their
weights as if in a physics class, squeezing slightly to judge their
relative viscosity, rubbing the nipples to keep them firm and tough, as
well as to elicit the small, nearly inaudible groans of pleasure that
had been emanating from Mrs. Bouchard. It was at that point that I
remembered that these breasts were attached to a person and were not
merely an entity unto themselves. Not only that, but the person was
standing right before me. I looked down and realized that I could make
out the dark shadow of her bush through the white cotton of her panties.
What's more the panties seemed to be growing increasingly transparent as
they approached her crotch. Whether it was sweat or excitement I don't
know, but at the time I certainly didn't care. Without a word or a hint
I dropped to my knees and buried--literally buried--my nose into her
crotch. I can still remember her smell, which I drew deep into my lungs
and subsequently which made its way into my bloodstream. She was
shocked at first, to be sure, but I would not let go. I grabbed on to
her panty-clad ass and, one cheek in each hand, pulled her into me. She
could hardly protest. I was young but I knew what was right and wrong,
and I knew that if push came to shove, nobody would blame me for my
actions from this point on. Her cries of protest soon turned to grunts
and moans of pleasure as I slid my nose up and down her slit between her
legs. Her panties were now utterly soaked and I could not only smell
but also taste her. As I rocked her crotch back and forth on my nose
I worked my hands inside of her panties, onto her ass. My left index
finger dug its way slowly into her anus as my right hand slid her
panties down around her ankles.
This was really the key moment. She pulled back, stepped back and
seemed, for a second, to get a grip on the situation. "No, Not now.
No. We can't"
She muttered over and over again as she tried to pull her clothes back
on. I was not about to turn back at this point though. My cock was so
hard I thought it might spontaneously explode. I could not stop now.
It was physically impossible. I told her as much.
"I can't stop now. Its too much. I'll never talk. But if you stop I
will." I never really meant for that last sentence to come out but it
did. I couldn't help it. Shit, it was the truth, at least at the time
it was. She froze. Her hands stopped and her panties, now up to her
knees, stopped their advance. I undid her fingers, her underwear fell
free to the ground.
She was my object now. Horrible as that sounds that is all she was--my
object. I could do anything and everything I wanted to her. First I
pushed her into the living room--carpeting--and bade her lay down. On
the floor I pushed her legs up and knees apart so that I could inspect
her. My first look at the female anatomy in this way. Awkwardly I
experimented with oral sex. So *that* is the clitoris... I licked
everywhere. I licked between her toes, I licked her asshole, I licked
her pussy, i plunged my tongue as deep as it could go. She orgasmed.
I'm sure of that. I'm also sure that it had nothing to do with my
skill. If she orgasmed its because she was a pedophile not because I
was particularly skilled. Everything I did I did for my own purposes, I
did for myself. I was an adventurer, an explorer. I was lewis and
clark combined. Finally I pulled down my own pants in a frantic rush
and jabbed my small, thin penis into her soft folds. I don't know how I
knew what to do but I knew that the time was near and somehow I knew
that that was where my penis was supposed to be.
As you can imagine, as a thirteen year-old virgin, it did not take long.
Mrs Bouchard's hairy, sweaty, hot, wet pussy was too much for my
hypersensitive cock to handle. I pistoned in and out of her maybe five
times before I came inside of her. I would say that my orgasm was
explosive if that term were not so over-used in these sorts of stories.
But it was. I had nothing to compare it to save it felt like my entire
innards were being emptied through my penis. It was as if this
tremendous, oppressive craving, which I had unwittingly endured for
years on end, had suddenly been relieved. I thought I might pass out.
And all of a sudden Mrs. Bouchard was filled with my teenage cum.
Let me defend myself against what follows by saying that I really was
naive. I knew nothing. Everything I knew about sex I had just
experienced in the preceding 15 minutes. So when I started to get up ,
hot, sweaty, and exhausted, I knew no better. Mrs. Bouchard stopped me,
grabbing my skinny butt with both hands and pushing one of her sharp
fingernails against my anus, stopping me.
"Don't you know that a gentleman cleans up his own mess?"
I turned crimson again and started to reach for some tissues,
conveniently located nearby when she stopped me.
"Nuh-uh, not that way." Mrs Bouchard pushed away my hand and, instead,
applied gentle, yet steady, pressure to the top of my head.
Of course I realize now that I was being used, if not abused, but at the
time everything was new and I thought that this was the normal course of
affairs. Without restraint Mrs. Bouchard shoved my face into her pussy
and made me lick every last drop of my teenage cum from her pussy. When
I was done with her pussy she shoved my face against her anus and made
me clean out her ass while she massaged her clitoris. Apparently she
hadn't gotten all the sex out of her system when I was fucking her (no
surprise considering I only lasted a few minutes). When I was done I
was of course rock solid again and that was when I got my first blowjob.
I didn't know what she was doing (honest!) nut she took me in her mouth
and I didn't need to know anything else. She swallowed me whole,
wrapped her tongue around my balls. She slipped me out of her warm
mouth to bathe my asshole with her saliva, pulling my cheeks apart with
one hand, pumping my cock with the other. Before she knew it I started
to erupt, pouring what seemed to be gallons of cum all over her face,
hair and chest before she captured me in her mouth, swallowing and
slurping me noisily.
And that was that. We had more than one other rendezvous, but it was
clear she was getting nervous as the date for Kirk's return approach.
In retrospect she must have regretted (partially) what she did
immediately upon doing it, but she still fucked me 4 or 5 more times
after that. She threatened all sorts of things if I ever told any one.
I would be unpopular, my parents wouldn't love me, I would be arrested,
I would lose my paper route. I didn't much believe the threats but I
didn't talk all the same. The point was she didn't want me to talk and
I was grateful to her beyond expression. The one threat that did effect
me was that we could never do it again if I spoke. And so, until now, I
never spoke.
I now know she was just a perverted middle-aged, plain-looking (if well
endowed) alcoholic housewife, but to a 13 year old paperboy she was a
supermodel, she was the embodiment of sex, she was far, far more than I
ever imagined. I only wish that now I could experience that same
frantic, panicked excitement when having sex.
*******************************
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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