3 comments/  12022 views/  2 favorites

Inappropriate

By: Inappropriate



If Steve were still here, Susan would have been satisfied with him. It wasn't her fault he wasn't still here—or that Ian had shown up because of Steve.

As the second month of their sordid—Susan couldn't see it as anything but that—relationship slipped into the third, Susan and Ian fell into a routine that was satisfying when Ian was on top of her and inside her, but less so when he was absent. Susan began to know what it was to be sharing a man with someone else—and of being the incidental party.

Once or twice a week—usually without prescheduling, Ian expecting her to be there and to have a meal for two prepared whether or not he came—Ian would come for lunch. They'd eat, with very little conversation, while he looked at his watch and took his cell phone calls. And then they'd go into the bedroom and fuck, giving Susan her twenty minutes of paradise. Then he'd shower and be gone. And he'd leave his wet towel in the middle of the bathroom floor. He always expected her to be there. And they always, now, made it to the bed before passion overtook them.

Susan thought she missed that the most. Always making it to the bed.

Steve had left his wet towel in the middle of the bathroom floor too.

She was sitting on her back patio, in her bikini and taking in the sun, one day and thinking about this tawdry routine she'd fallen into when she noticed that the grass had grown alarmingly high. That was natural enough—it was late spring now—but it was something that hadn't occurred to her, this constant growing of the grass. It had been early fall when Steve had left. The grass had always been cut short when he was here. He'd done that. Susan had enjoyed sitting on the patio, watching him, shirtless, mowing the grass, his muscles undulating on his body as he moved. He'd aroused her. And she enjoyed giving him lemonade afterward and then the two of them going into the house and making love.

But she'd not thought of what would happen to the grass when he wasn't there.

She went into the house and went through the flyers she kept of neighborhood services—the ones that she always found in the newspaper sleeve beside her mailbox that had never been used for newspapers.

"Caleb!" she exclaimed when answering the door to the yard man the company said it would send over.

"Oh, hi, Mrs. Shelby," Caleb said. "I recognized the name when they told me where to go, but I didn't know it would be you. Gee, sorry to hear about your husband."

"You're mowing lawns?" Susan asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. "I had hoped you'd have gotten your GED and were on your way to college."

"I start at Fredericks in the fall," Caleb said, he voice full of pride. "Thanks to you I did finish the high school classes. And I got accepted to Fredericks. I'm working landscaping for the summer to pay for the part of the tuition my scholarship doesn't cover."

"You got a scholarship? Good for you."

They stood there, beaming at each other. Susan had forgotten how handsome—and muscle bound—the young black man was who had gotten into trouble and into juvenile detention but who was working his way out of trouble and had aged out of juvenile detention. She figured he was still on probation—but keeping his nose clean. Everything about him looked clean and healthy. And, she had to admit, arousing. The thought she was having was inappropriate—she wanted to see him with the T-shirt off.

"Oh, we're just standing here," she said. "Come on around the back and I'll show you the lawn. Sorry to say, it would better be called a jungle just now. But I hope you'll put that aright."

That first time, she stood at her kitchen sink, watching Caleb hacking at her tall grass with a mower. He'd stripped down to his gym trunks, and Susan found herself twitching and trembling—and drinking glass after glass of water—as she stood at the kitchen window and watched him work, the muscles of his chest and arms undulating as he moved with the mower. The way his belly muscles tightened up as he pulled back on the machine. Looking at the dip of the waistband of his gym shorts in front, showing the hollows where his thighs met the armor plating of his belly muscles. The pull of his basket on the gray material of the shorts.

"Sorry, it don't look too good yet," he said in apology as he came to her back door after he'd finished mowing. "The grass was really high and I just sorta got it chopped down today. I'll have to come back soon, I'm afraid, to get it lookin' right."

"Oh, that's fine. I knew it would need extra work. When can you come again?"

"I could come Wednesday at noon."

"Hmm. Lunchtimes aren't good here. Could you come sometime after three instead?"

"Sure. Wednesday at three. See you then."

Susan leaned her head out of the back door and watched him until he'd pushed the mower around the side of the house, and then she raced through the house, going to the living room, and watched him through the window there as he loaded the mower on the truck, wiped the sweat off his chest and under his arms with his T-shirt, and then pulled it down over his head, got in the truck, and drove away.

She was still standing there, wistfully fingering the edge of the living room window drapes when he was no more than a blue puff of smoke from a now-gone tailpipe.

Susan really did forget about the Wednesday afternoon appointment. She kept telling herself that that part was quite innocent—she had just forgotten. Ian hadn't been there that week, and she was all keyed up. So, that, she told herself, was why she'd forgotten Caleb was coming to mow Wednesday afternoon. And that, she reasoned, was also to blame for how outrageously she acted.

On Wednesday afternoon, when Caleb rounded the side of the house into the backyard, pushing his mower, and did his double-take, Susan was reclining on a deck chair on the patio, in her bikini, taking in the sun. On the patio table beside her was a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. (She didn't even bother to think about why there were two glasses.)

She expressed surprise and then her apologies that she'd forgotten the day—but she didn't go inside when Caleb stripped down to his gym shorts and started mowing the yard.

She was reading a book—the same sentence over and over again—as Caleb tooled around the yard behind the mower. She noted that he was watching her too. The lawn didn't look all that great when he was done.

Of course when he was done, she offered him a glass of lemonade.

Susan had no recollection of what happened between then and when she was kneeling between Caleb's knees while he sat in the chair, spilled lemonade down his sweaty chest, and she gasped at the length and thickness of him before she closed her lips over the knob of his cock and flicked his slit with her tongue.

Caleb sat, rigid and in shock, as, now hard as a rock, Susan straddled his hips with her thighs and settled down and began slowly to rise and fall on his impossibly monstrous manhood, her hands going to glide through the sweat and lemonade on the muscles of his chest.

She felt like she was robbing the cradle—knowing this was completely inappropriate—but also knowing that she had secretly been dreaming of doing this with Caleb all the way back to when he first walked into her classroom at the detention center.

It wasn't long, though, before Caleb recovered from his shock and showed Susan it was no cradle she was robbing.

With a lurch, Caleb was out of the chair and carrying Susan inside the house. He slammed her down hard on her belly on the kitchen table and grabbed her hair in one hand and guided his cock to her entrance with the other. And then, with Susan arching her back and writhing under him and crying out her passion and pain, he thrust his cock deep inside her and began to pump hard and vigorously.

She gasped and moaned and pleaded in vein—and then lost all abandon—as he came out of her, rose higher on her back and started to work his way into her other channel. Susan melted into a burbling mass of yielding vessel to the strength, fury, and endurance of youth.

"Damn fine bitch," he exclaimed after he'd come. "Guess it's worth what my probation officer's gonna say about this."

"Oh, god, Caleb. You are so . . ." Susan couldn't complete that sentence. "I won't tell. Honest. Just don't leave. Just don't . . ."

Caleb laughed. Susan was still pinned under him, his cock still hard inside her. "In that case, you got a bed? I wouldn't mind a round the other way."

After that, Susan signed up to have full landscaping done on her yard. Candace applauded her efforts to throw herself into gardening.

All went well until the Tuesday Caleb arrived a day and two hours early to do his yard work and Ian arrived late for his lunch.

Susan didn't even know they were there until she heard the commotion in the back yard and arrived in time to see Ian winning the beat down. If she'd had to bet on it, she would have given odds to Caleb. But Ian was the wilier of the two.

He stood in the driveway and watched Caleb drive away in his truck. Susan knew she wouldn't see Caleb again.

Then he turned to Susan and said, "I don't want to see a guy like that around here anymore."

"He's just a boy who mows the lawn," Susan said defensively.

"Well, he can mow lawns somewhere else. What's for lunch?"

This was enough to give Susan a backbone. "There is no lunch for you, buddy. You may think you own me and can order me around like a castle slave just because you are great in bed. But you don't own me. No one does. Perhaps I can discuss the matter with your wife—and your kids. How many do you have? I bet she pops one out every year. Do you suppose they'll tell me who your wife is if I ask at your office? Do you suppose they might have a list of other young widows you've consoled after their husbands died in Afghanistan?"

Ian blanched and then he turned and marched—there was no other word for it—off to his car.

And that was the last that Susan saw of him as well.

Life was no longer inappropriate for Susan. But it wasn't all that satisfying, either.

* * * *

"Yes, Mother, I really am going to come out to see you know. I'm going out to get the tickets tomorrow. I promise."

"Oh, good. And I've just met the most marvelous man. Ryan, you know my friend Glenda's son. He's back in town. Best law firm in town. And Glenda and I were just saying the other day—"

"Ryan? Ryan Tyler? Mother. Ryan's thirty-four and perfect in every way and not married. What does that tell you?"

"You know Ryan Tyler? What should that tell me, honey. He's gorgeous and successful and such a nice dresser."

"Mother, I went to high school with Ryan. He was into boys even then."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying Ryan's not going to have any interest in me. Ryan's gay. Talking about inappropriate."

"Well, he probably just hasn't met a nice girl yet. I'm sure you could—"

"Mother! You're the limit. But, sorry, I've got to hang up. Someone's at the door."

It was Frank, Candace's father, Frank. He was standing at the door, straight and tall, chest out, hair all slicked back, and the most hopeful of smiles on his face.