There was never a time when Mrs. H was even remotely inappropriate. As many times as my horny eighteen year old fantasies would have her ripping that shirt and panties off and jumping my bones right there on the sofa, the reality was that she was the adult, and she always set a good example for both Brian and me. I did start to see her in a different light though. I think most boys are fascinated by female breasts. Seeing her like that sure made me wonder what they really looked like, I know very well what my fantasies had made them out to look like.
One other notable change that happened shortly after my eighteenth birthday was the list of chores that were assigned. Brian and I were always responsible for the “manly” chores like taking out the trash, mowing the lawn, and of course cleaning our own rooms. Mrs. H suddenly decided that I should learn some of the more typically feminine chores including laundry. She would always say that she needed to make sure that she taught us to be respectable future husbands.
I will never forget my first laundry lesson. Mrs. H pulled out a basket of her underwear and set it next to the washer. As she pulled each delicate piece of clothing from the basket, she explained which could be machine washed and which requires either cold water or hand washing. It suddenly struck me that I had never seen any of her soiled delicates in the laundry hamper before. Her bras were fascinating, and the cups looked so big. The tag on one simply read DD. I couldn’t help but imagine them gently cradling those luscious breasts.
“You always have to check here,” Mrs. H said as she interrupted my fantasy. When my mind snapped back to the present, she was turning a silky pair of panties inside out and pointed to the gusset. “Sometimes girls leak a little fluid from their vagina,” she said with a perfectly straight face. “It is perfectly normal and healthy, but If you see some staining here,” pointing to the gusset of the panties she was holding, “You will need to use some spot remover before washing.” I just stared at that stained gusset as my imagination went into overdrive. Porn had taught me what a girl looks like down there when she is all horny and wet. I was suddenly imagining that patch of absorbent cotton fabric pressed tightly against a juicy wet pussy, Mrs. H’s juicy wet pussy. My eyes drifted from the crotch of the soiled panties to Mrs. H’s crotch.
I was suddenly interrupted by an “Uh hum,” from Mrs. H. When I looked up at her, she just smiled and said, “I don’t even want to know what is going through your mind right now, but I need you to focus on what you are doing. The rest is all yours,” she said as she signaled for me to finish sorting the contents of the laundry basket. “Just remember, if you have any questions, I will be more than happy to explain. Oh, and not just about my underwear. You are old enough now that I can go into much more detail about sex and girls.”
I took my new laundry duties very seriously, thoroughly inspecting every one of her delicate items before tossing them in the washer. I will admit that there were a couple of occasions where I felt the need to wrap a pair of her silky panties around the shaft of my dick and masturbate right there in the laundry room. It seemed easy enough to justify my actions, they were already soiled and headed for the washing machine anyway. What could a little extra cum hurt.
A couple weeks later, I was in my bedroom doing some “research” online. After that first laundry lesson, I had become fixated on these “fluids” that Mrs. H talked about leaking from girl’s vaginas. I knew that Mrs. H was getting ready for work, and I could hear Brian in the shower. After I did a search for “wet pussy” I just couldn’t resist masturbating to the graphic pictures of sloppy wet drooling vaginas. I had borrowed a pair of Mrs. H’s panties and had the head of my dick pressed against the crotch. I was so close, pausing just before reaching the point of no return, then carefully stroking a little more. When I heard an unexpected knock on my bedroom door, I panicked, tossed the panties in the corner and jumped up and grabbed a pair of Jeans. “Just a minute,” I yelled as I buttoned and zipped.
“Oh fuck!” I screamed as a sharp pain enveloped my hard dick. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I screamed as tears filled my eyes.
The door pushed open, and Mrs. H rushed to my side. As she looked down to where my hands were working furiously to free my dick from the zipper, she grabbed my hand in an attempt to stop me.
“Sit on the bed,” she said in a calm voice. “Let me have a look.”
She knelt between my legs and assessed the situation. The head of my very hard dick was protruding though the zipper openning, and the soft fleshy tissue on the bottom side of my dick was pinched tightly between four or five of the zipper teeth.
“Just lay back and close your eyes,” Mrs. H directed. I could feel her soft gentle fingers wrap around my protruding head as she gently pulled on the zipper.
I let out a scream and my hand instinctively grabbed hers in an attempt to stop her. “Sorry,” she said as she gently rubbed the head of my dick in an attempt to relieve the pain. “Just lay there for a second while I go get some lotion.”
Mrs. H bolted out of the room and returned a few seconds later with a bottle of hand lotion. “I am going to rub some of this on your penis. I think it will help lubricate the zipper and help to release its grip.”
“Okay,” I muttered fearing the worst.
Mrs. H squirted some lotion into her hand and rubbed it between her palms to warm it. When she applied it to the head of my dick, I jumped, the sensation nearly sending me into a massive orgasm. I tensed my body, making every attempt to keep from the embarrassment of shooting a load of cum into Mrs. H’s hand. Just then, she jerked on the zipper, freeing me from its grip. The pain momentarily quelling my urge to cum.
Instinctively, I grabbed my freed member and tried to cover up. “Let me see that thing,” Mrs. H said as she gently gripped the base of my dick. “I am a nurse after all, and I have seen this kind of injury before.”
I could feel the blood pulsing through my hard dick. My mind trying to block the warm sensation of her touch, concentrate on something gross and disturbing. It wasn’t working. I was going to cum all over Mrs. H.
“You’ll be fine,” Mrs.H’s soft voice interrupted. As she stood and turned to leave, she slid a box of tissue close to me and set the bottle of lotion next to it. “I would prefer that you use tissue,” she said as she stooped and retrieved the panties from the floor. “Be sure to use lotion as well. You have a small abrasion on your penis, and you do not want to make it worse.” She left the room without making eye contact.
Moments after the door closed, before I could even touch myself, I erupted, spewing thick gooey cum all over my stomach. I just lay back as my dick slowly deflated thinking about how embarrassing it would have been if that happened a couple of minutes earlier. Then it stuck me. Mrs. H touched my dick. She rubbed lotion on it. I squirted a couple of streams of lotion into my palm and carefully wrapped my fingers around my growing dick. As my mind generated a fantasy about Mrs. H giving me a handjob, I started to wish I would have surprised her by cumming in her hand. I was after all, eighteen and she had such a gentle caring touch. Just maybe, my fantasy mind began to ponder, she might have put it in her mouth like I had seen so many porn girls do. Maybe she would get all horny and wet, and just pull her pants down and climb on top of me. That was it, my sexually charged mind suddenly had Mrs. H fully naked, hovering over me, slowly lowering her wet pussy onto my dick. I could feel it wrapping around, slipping over me. Before I knew it, a second load of cum erupted onto my stomach. As I reached for the box of tissue, I couldn’t help but smile at the realization the Mrs. H somehow knew I would masturbate. “Fuck,” I thought, she caught me with her panties. Was she upset?
That evening, Mrs. H asked how my “injury” was doing. I just blushed and responded that it was better. “Thank you for not making that situation any more embarrassing than it already was. I am sorry about the panties. I promise it won’t happen again.” She just smiled. Perhaps I was reading more into it the situation, but that smile on her face somehow seemed different. I couldn’t help but notice her extremely hard nipples, the way she was leaning on the arm of the sofa, legs tightly crossed, foot gently bouncing. I had heard rumor that a girl could somehow get off by bouncing her foot while sitting like that. Was Mrs. H doing that?
The week before graduation, Mrs. H told Brian and I that she wanted to take a vacation to celebrate our high school graduation. A camping trip, she proudly announced, to Beilager Point. Brian didn’t seem overly thrilled. He seemed to have lost his interest in nature and would rather spend his summer on his phone or computer. “Really mom?” he protested. “You know there is no internet out in the forest. Just wild animals and bugs. I just don’t understand your fascination with that place.”
“Yes dear,” she responded. “One last escape from the constraints and judgements of society. A chance to reconnect with Mother Nature, embrace her beauty, reap her bounty. It won’t be long before the two of you will be heading off to college. Please do this for your lonely old mom, for your best friend.”
Brian looked over at me and reluctantly agreed. I was ecstatic. Mrs. H’s little speech left me feeling a little horny, but I wasn’t sure exactly why. Perhaps it was her passion about camping, but it just seemed spiritual somehow. Her whole body seemed to glow as she delivered the words.
“Hey, Mrs. H,” I questioned. “What is the story behind, Beilager Point? Is it named after someone? I asked my mom a long time ago and she just blushed and said she would explain it when I was older.”
report “Well. I guess you boys are both adults now,” she responded. “We didn’t know what it meant when we first started going up there, so your mom and I did a lot of research. It turns out that there was a small, somewhat progressive German settlement close to the lake back in the early eighteen hundreds. Beilager translates to “bedding ceremony” in German. Evidently, following a wedding ceremony, a newlywed couple along with the wedding party and parents would make the hike to the same location where the camp is now. During the ceremony, members of the wedding party would disrobe the newlyweds and place them on a makeshift bed. The group of spectators would then circle the bed and watch as the couple consummated their marriage.”
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