I was twenty-four, twice Brandon’s age, when he showed up on move-in day at our new home seeking a lawn mowing job. We’d only been married a short time, and this was our first home, or we probably wouldn’t have hired him. He seemed so little that I didn’t want to, but Richard, my husband, pointed out that it would save buying a mower. Temporarily mortgage-poor, that was a significant expense, so the miniature entrepreneur got the job.

He was cute, but painfully shy, blushing all the time, often for no apparent reason. Watching him straining to push that roaring mower up the slight incline in our yard was mildly terrifying, but he was dependable and did a good job. By fourteen, he was bigger and handled his mower with ease, but he was still so shy it seemed painful for him to speak – good kid, though.

At sixteen, he’d quit mowing for another job, so we hired a service, something we could finally afford. He still said hello when our paths crossed, and he still blushed, but he came to mind some months later regarding a chore that had proved more difficult than anticipated. He’d grown and filled out by then, and I thought his long arms and additional muscle might be just what was called for.

Planning to call him, instead I saw him outside his family home one afternoon and stopped. I tapped the horn and waved, lowering my window.

“Hi, Brandon.”

“Hi, Mrs. Nelson.”

“Please call me Rayne, OK?” He blushed – of course – jamming his hands in his back pockets. “Hey, would you like to earn some extra money?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“I’m removing those nasty Russian olive shrubs out back, and I could use some help.” The previous owner planted the thorny, nasty things, and I hated them. Richard, my husband, is allergic to them as well, so they needed to go.

“Sure, I can help you. When?”

“What’s your next day off?”

“Tuesday.”

“I’ll take the day off; we’ll do it then.” His retail job required weekends, so I’d known it would be a weekday. “Bring leather gloves and wear good shoes, the thorns are bad – and it’s supposed to be hot, so dress for that.” He nodded, and I said, “Eight-thirty, OK?”

“Sure.”

I had all the tools and equipment ready when he showed up early on Tuesday, and we dived in immediately. We were making progress, Brandon gradually relaxing as we chatted and worked. It was hot, so I wore shorts and a tank top and he'd worn sweat shorts and an old t-shirt. At one point, when we paused for a drink, I asked him how old he was, impressed with how he’d matured!

“I’m almost eighteen.”

“So, you’re seventeen?” When he nodded, I said, “I didn’t ask how old you almost are.” He blushed, and I laughed. “I’m teasing you.”

“I know. I just… Oh! You’re bleeding!”

He indicated my shoulder, and I craned my neck to see; he was right, I’d hooked myself on one of the long thorns or something and was bleeding freely from a long gouge on my shoulder. “Huh, never even felt it. I better go clean and bandage it. Come in and cool off for a minute, I may need your help.”

By the time we got inside I had blood soaking into my shirt and bra strap. I left him in the kitchen with instructions to help himself, and once in our master bath stripped off my shirt and bra. I cleaned the area with warm, soapy water and a washcloth, but it continued to bleed freely, and while I could clean it, it would take two hands to bandage, which I couldn’t manage. I grabbed a towel to cover my breasts and called him to help me.

He came in tentatively, stopping the moment he saw me. I said, “Come on, Brandon, you need to help me – and relax, ok? I’m completely covered.” Not totally true; my entire back was bare, but nothing important. Still, he came forward to help, although he was not relaxed!

As we prepared things for a bandage and he began to apply antibiotic with a Q-tip, I couldn’t help but notice in the mirror that he had an impressive erection, his shorts tented out. He’d displayed the same condition earlier in the day; he was seventeen, so I figured it was inevitable. Still, now I couldn’t stop looking!

His hands shaking, he fumbled the tube of ointment. I grabbed for it, losing my grip on the towel, which fell to the floor. He stared at me for a moment, and I said, “Oops, sorry!” He politely looked away, but in a rare moment of daring, I said, “It’s ok, Brandon, they’re just boobs.”

He looked again, wide-eyed and blushing. When he remained mute, I said, “You like?”

He glanced up before his gaze returned to my breasts, nodding yes. I smiled. “Sure looks like you do!” I reached out and gave his bulge a light stroke with one finger, but was shocked when he gasped and pulled away, bending and clutching himself, squeezing his cock and groaning.

“Did I hurt you? Oh, no, oh I see… I’m sorry! Oh, Brandon, sweetie, it’s ok!” Over-excited, he’d come, very prematurely and unexpectedly; he grasped himself, trying to stop it, his semen, white and plentiful, soaking through his shorts.

“It’s ok, sweetie! I just surprised you, but I’m very flattered. Here, let me help…” I grasped his extremely hard cock through his shorts, finishing his orgasm, then knelt and tugged them down, taking him into my mouth. He groaned and shuddered but didn’t pull away; a few minutes later he ejaculated again, and I swallowed every drop.

After, while he recovered, I showed him a few things and the next time he came it was deep inside of me. We didn’t get a lot of work done, but it proved a very productive day!