Mowing for Two

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I started mowing her yard a couple years ago as a kind of favor. Willow was a little old lady, bent over, her white, almost purplish hair was worn short; she wore wire-frame glasses and always seemed grateful. My yard took about half a tank of gas and so I would push the mower to her yard, go to her door to let her know, then it would take twenty or thirty minutes to do her yard. You know, I am a good boy scout, for an old man.

It was good for me to get off my ass, and actually it felt good to know I still had the energy for two lawns, even though, yes, there would be a nap afterwards. The truth is, Willow was only two years older than me. I liked to think of myself as a husky, ageless man. It worked if I stayed away from mirrors. Willow was too small and frail to push a lawn mower and the neighborhood kids are crooks with the price they charge. I usually got a cold glass of lemonade and a few minutes of conversation out of the deal, that was enough for me.

It’d been quiet at my house since the kids moved out. Karlie and I enjoyed being together but it had turned into a kind of collegial relationship, certainly there was nothing sexual. I will take responsibility for that, I can’t explain, the same old same old and after a while sleep sounded better than fucking. It had been years now.

It must have been the hottest day of the year, late July. It was unbearably humid, the sun was beating down, and don’t you know I have to go out and prove something. At this age I shouldn’t be doing yardwork at all, I’m about due for a heart attack or something. In jeans and tennis shoes and a t-shirt I strode out to the shed, filled the tank and pushed the mower through the gate to the back yard. At least there was some shade back there from the fruit trees. I began to sweat but it was not bad.

I got ‘er done and came out to the front, leaving the motor running, clutch disengaged. The front yard had no shelter, nothing but white-hot sky overhead. I started off doing the outside in a rectangle, you know, I have my own pattern here. I spiral in from the outside. Then, by the end I am taking little rows and it goes faster. It’s one of those things I do to trick my mind. But man, was it hot. I had on my ACE cap but the back of my neck was taking the sun directly. I pulled off the t-shirt, tearing the sopping fabric off my sopping skin, and wrapped it around the mower handle. Sweat literally dripped from it.

Those rectangles were still pretty big, and sweat was running down between my legs and even further, into my socks. My eyes burned with it. When I wiped my face with my forearm, the sweat only smeared, none was wiped off, in fact the arm might have been sweatier than the face.

I finally hit that infinitesimal row that leads to nothing more, and let the throttle pop back, turning the motor off. I leaned on the handle of the mower, panting. My heart was pounding. I turned my head to look at Willow’s little yard. It was somewhat smaller than mine, but sort of a weird shape, maybe trapezoidal, and hilly, so it was actually more work to mow hers than mine. I pictured the neighbors peeking through their shades, thinking that old man can’t keep going, and I made a show of rolling my lawn mower to the little old lady’s house. I parked it at the corner near the driveway and went to the door to let her know.

I knocked and it took a little while before the door opened. Through the screen I saw a face that was not Willow. “Hello?” a voice said. A woman’s face came nearer the screen. “Oh, you must be Henry, Willow told me about you.”

“Good to meet you, ma’am,” I said.

Her eyes ran from my face to my chest – I had not thought to put the t-shirt back on – to my, I don’t know what, somewhere down there. “Oh – look at you!” she said.

I stood there, the object of her attention. It was weird, I did not know what “look at you” meant. I obviously cannot look at myself. And there was no one else she might have been addressing. So she must have been talking to herself, telling herself to look at me.

“Willow said she usually gives you some lemonade or something, is that right?”

“Yes, she does sometimes. It’s all right, you-“

“You like ice in it?”

“Sure, thank you.”

The woman disappeared briskly into the shadows within the house. She was slender and seemed to be wearing a tight pair of faded jeans, and a kind of t-shirt or halter top, I don’t know what you call them. It had no sleeves and sort of a deep neckline. And she was barefoot. She reappeared with two glasses of lemonade. She trotted to the door and then stood there and looked at me through the screen again. “Does she give it to you out there, or do you come in?”

“Either way is fine with me,” I said. Usually, in fact, Willow invited me in to cool down and chat, but usually that was after I had finished. Willow was lonely and appreciated the company.

The woman peered at me through the mesh. “Are you safe?”

“What do you mean, am I safe?”

“You’re not a bad guy, you’re Ankara escort not going to hurt me, are you?”

“Uh, well, listen, even if I was a bad guy I would say I’m not, wouldn’t I?”

“Hmm,” she looked at me again. That lemonade sure looked good. “Okay,” she finally said, poking the door open with her foot. “Come on in. Here, take this. My name is Aspen.”

“I’m Hen-“

“I know,” she said. She looked me over, I don’t know any other way to put it. She took a full minute to stand there and let her eyes wander over every inch of my body. “Come on in, shut the door,” she said, as if there had been no pause. “Don’t let the heat in.” She spoke with a little bit of an accent that I couldn’t identify. Maybe Eastern European of some sort. She spoke English almost like her native language, but with a little bit of a crunch to it.

“And why are-” I began.

“Oh, I’m Willow’s sister. She had a surgery thing today, she’ll be out for a few days, and ta-da, I’m watching the place.”

Aspen was a piece of work. There is a type, you learn to recognize them, they are like stars that attract passing planets to orbit them; she was one of those. She was a petite woman, probably five-one, with gray, almost white hair. It was tied back in a French something, some hairdo, I don’t know what they’re called. It had a barrette and her hair reached past her shoulders. She looked very comfortable and fit, and by the twinkle in her eyes I would say, playful.

“You look like you could use a towel,” she said. “You want me to get you one?” She took half a step as if to indicate it was effortless.

“No, thanks, ma’am. I’m just going to sweat some more.”

“Poor thing,” she murmured, and it was clear that she was mocking me. It was at this moment that I realized she had turned the table on me.

I don’t know how to explain that, exactly. I’m a pretty big guy, normally people give me some room, and if I am talking to somebody I usually sort of run the conversation. I don’t do it on purpose, but for some reason people look to me when it’s time to speak. So it ends up with me deciding what we will talk about and even how we will talk about it. Like I say, I don’t do it on purpose, it is just the way it works, I am tall and a little extraverted, and I guess I tend to get my way, you know what I mean?

So it was alarming and strange to realize that this tiny lady had somehow got me figuratively on my knees with her foot on the top of my head, holding me there. I felt like I would give her whatever she wanted, and she shouldn’t have to ask for it. I should pay attention so I would know. It was a subtle thing, of course I could have spoken up or done something to take over but I thought it was kind of funny, kind of an interesting and different feeling. Like an elephant being afraid of a mouse. Aspen had a kind of confidence that was subtle and hypnotic.

“Actually, it’s the humidity that makes it uncomfortable.” That was the best I could think to say.

“Yes,” she said, “And now look at you.”

“Well, there ain’t much to see.”

“You are covered with sweat,” she said. “Every inch of you. Here, let me get you some more lemonade. And definitely, some more ice.” And she bounded to the kitchen again. For an old lady she had a lot of energy, and also her ass looked fine in jeans.

She bounded back in a second and we stood in the living room, on Willow’s lace-edged rug, talking and sipping our cold drinks. In this top she did not have “cleavage,” exactly, she was petite and her breasts were smallish, but there was something about her that made your eyes gravitate, if you get my drift.

“Okay,” I said, handing her my empty glass. “I better get it done.”

“More lemonade when you’re finished,” she said, with a smile. I did not take it as an invitation so much as an order. I would not disappoint. It was weird, I tell you.

I was twice as sweaty after I had finished that stupid trapezoid, or whatever shape that is. Parallelogram? I don’t know but you could have put a bucket under me and filled it up with sweat. And I could feel my back beginning to sunburn a little, which makes it even worse. I left the mower at the same front corner and knocked on the door.

“Oh, come in,” Aspen said, waving her hand as she held the screen door open. “You look like you’re about to wash away.”

“It’s hot out there,” I admitted, as she handed me a cold glass. “Mmm, this is good.”

“Look at you,” she said. I was beginning to feel a little flattered, like maybe she actually enjoyed looking at me. I sort of shrugged while she examined me visually, head to toe. “Okay,” she said suddenly. “I don’t care what you want, I’m not going to let you stand there dripping on Willow’s nice rug like that. I am getting a towel.”

And off she went.

I did not think I was actually dripping at that point, not enough to hurt the rug anyway. Aspen seemed to be overreacting. A towel? A cool shower would be nice, but a towel? She jogged back from the back of the house Ankara escort bayan with a fluffy white towel in her hands. I reached out for it but she hurried right past my hands and said, “Here, turn around. That way,” pointing. I turned to face the picture window that looked out at the back yard. I felt the towel touch between my shoulder blades and she dabbed and wiped my upper back, and my lower back, till they were cool and dry.

“Turn around,” she said, and I turned to face her. I thought I spotted a flash of mischief in her eyes. “Put those arms up,” she said. Up they went, reaching for the sky. She began to dry my throat and upper chest. She had a particular way of patting at my skin and then rubbing with the palm of her hand inside the towel. She dried my chest and then my tummy, which is, okay I admit it, I ought to lose fifteen pounds. She dabbed and rubbed the sweat off me.

It was a little ticklish when she started up my arms. I started to drop them but she said, “No, keep them up.” I am not sure why. She could hardly reach my elbows, even on tiptoe. She leaned her body against mine to steady her, and dabbed the towel up my arm, past the elbow, to my wrists. One side then the other. She said, “I love it when they have their arms up.”

She stepped back. “Look at these pants,” she said suddenly.

“What about them?” I asked but immediately I understood that my blue jeans were soaked all the way through. She reached out her hand to my hip and touched my jeans near the pocket. Her hand rested there, then swiped across toward the front, feeling for wetness.

“You can’t wear these,” she said.

I still had my arms in the air, standing a few inches from her. My feet were spread, my arms up, and for some reason her comment about my pants was making my cock swell. “Well I have to,” I said. It sounded lame.

“Have to?” She didn’t miss a move.

“Uh, yeah, they’re the only pants I have.”

She stepped back and stood at arm’s length looking me up and down.

“You want a robe?”

“No, really, I’m okay,” I said. My dick kept getting stiffer. It was weird, I tell you.

“You want to stand there without one?”

“I can just kee-“

“Do you want a robe? Yes or no.”

“Yes, please,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, with no smile but radiating the power of triumph. “So get those pants off, I’ll get the robe.” She turned to leave the room. “Underpants, too,” she called over her shoulder.

I heard her rummaging through the closet in the back of the house while I peeled off my jeans and then my tighty-whiteys, which rolled into a kind of wet loop like a washcloth. I kicked them both off, in two wads a few feet from me. My cock was sticking straight out – funny, it hasn’t done that for a long time. When I heard Aspen begin to return I threw my arms up above my head again. I was not sure why, but I felt I was supposed to stand like that. She had not told me not to. I knew, consciously, that it was strange to stand there naked with my feet apart, my arms up in the air, and a hard-on that was pointing straight across the room, patiently awaiting her return. But it was not as strange as it sounds. She acted as if this was all normal, and so it was.

I was not embarrassed by the erection, oddly enough. I secretly hoped it offended her and shocked her, I hoped she would find it repulsive that a big sweaty man was standing in front of her aroused – it would serve her right. I pictured my purple-headed cock bouncing in front of her face while she tried to avert her eyes and then ordered me to leave, blushing with shame. It would be a return to balance, I’d say. But at the same time I also felt that I understood a little bit of what my role was in this unusual situation. It made sense in a way I do not understand. I was like a statue, like a full-size trophy, a thing, and Aspen was, I don’t know, the living human being. I stood with my arms up in the air and watched as she emerged from the shadow of the hallway.

“You’re going to hate this,” she said without pausing, “But it’s all Willow had.” She carried a kind of box like a hat-box. She stopped in front of me and looked up at me. My cock was boinging stupidly. “Well, look at you,” she said, that accent making it all seem other-worldly and hard to interpret. She looked up at my hands, and then at my face, my shoulders, until her eyes got to my cock. She looked at it and I thought she was going to reach out and touch it. Her attention went out to it, she focused on it and I felt it responding to her. She did not touch it. She just looked at it, like you would look at anything.

“Okay, turn around and put your arms down for a minute.” I complied as fast as I could, dropping my arms to my sides. “Look out,” she said, “Close your eyes.” I closed them and felt her body come up behind me, just brushing my back. Then a breeze as some fabric blew over my head and floated to my shoulders. She took each of my arms and slipped them into a sleeve. For some reason I kept my eyes closed Escort Ankara through all of this, following her implied wishes. I can’t explain it, never mind.

She reached around from behind me and tied a belt at the front of the robe, putting the knot just above my lead-pipe hard-on. Then I felt her step back and heard her walk around me slowly. “I would like those arms up,” she said politely. I raised my arms immediately. I had expected something like terrycloth but the robe seemed to be made of a much lighter fabric. After ten seconds or so of no movement, I heard her say, “Henry, why are your eyes closed?”

I opened them and looked at her. She was smiling at me. Her eyes ran up and down my full frame and she said, “Well look at you.” She looked for another minute. “Much better.”

I looked down to see that the robe was made of some very light see-through fabric. I could see my legs through the cloth, and even my hard cock poking straight out from my body was not concealed a bit. It was hard to imagine that Willow owned something like this, well maybe from some ancient past that I could not imagine. The fabric came down just past my knees, it probably touched the floor if either Willow or Aspen wore this robe.

I didn’t know what to say. I felt I had been tricked but could not figure out what the trick was. She offered a robe, and here was a robe. It did not offer up any bit of privacy or modesty, but somehow with my hands above my head, by cock leaking a little puddle of precum on the flimsy fabric – somehow it all seemed perfectly sensible.

“What do you want from me?” I suddenly asked her. I hoped it didn’t sound rude. I just suddenly wondered. The thought hit so fast that I didn’t think about it before I opened my mouth.

“Henry, I only wanted to give you a little cold lemonade,” she said.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

“And I thought you were going to die from the heat, honestly. You ought to see yourself,” she said.

“Okay.” There was a big mirror on a stand in the corner, faced toward the dressing-table where I couldn’t see it.

Aspen saw me look at it. “I’ll get it,” she said, “Don’t move a bone.” With that she glanced at my hard-on and laughed.

She rolled the mirror over so I could see myself standing there with my arms up in the air. This robe was ridiculous, it had lace at the edges and frills. It opened at the chest above the belt and one of my legs was exposed through the opening. I looked like I was dressed in drag as Jean Harlow or somebody. And my hard-on! It doesn’t look nearly as big in the mirror as it looks from here. But it was as if the robe was designed in such a way as to call attention to my throbbing cock.

“That looks cute on you,” she said, looking at me and then at my reflection. “I don’t think it is too feminine, do you?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

And still there was no feeling of embarrassment. I looked like some overweight old drag queen with a drooling little hard-on, in a frilly, girly outfit, with a strange older woman standing there staring at me with an expression of suppressed amusement, and yet it all seemed to fit together. I had stopped sweating and Aspen seemed to know exactly what she was doing, and I could not see any way that we were hurting anything.

In fact, the strange thing was that it didn’t seem strange at all. A few feet away, my wife was sitting watching TV, oblivious. I was in a lady’s living room with a hard-on, I’d never seen her before, I was dressed in some women’s lingerie – honestly – and she was standing there looking at me with half a smirk. It actually did not occur to me that we would have sex, or that this was even a sexual situation – I mean of course I had a throbbing hard-on, but really, who wouldn’t? Looking at Aspen, she was a nice-enough looking older lady, nice and slim, perky little tits, and a devilish look in her eye. Okay, actually, for her age, which was probably about the same as mine, she was kind of nice looking. I looked at her lips, which did not form a smile but only parted slightly as she stood there surveying my body. I looked at her eyes, which were dark as ink and gave no insights at all into what she was thinking or what her agenda was. Standing before her in that frilly see-through thing I felt nakeder than naked, I felt she could see right into me and right through to the other side. And I could not tell anything about her.

“You know what I like?” she said, lowering her voice a bit.

I shook my head. “No, what?”

“I like it when they kiss you.”

“When who kisses me?” I asked.

She let out a laugh. “Not you, silly.”

“Oh.” I felt small and stupid.

“Actually,” she said, “I should have been more clear. I meant, I like it when they kiss me.”

“I see,” I said. I thought she was going to reach out and touch me, actually I thought she might take my cock in her hand. But she did not move, did not reach out, she only caused the impression of it. Tacitly she had me anticipating the touch of her little fingers on my lustful erection. “When who kisses you?” I asked. But at the same time I felt I knew the answer. Oh, not in words, I had no idea what she meant in words, but I knew what she meant. She likes it when they kiss her.

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