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195 The Boy. free porn video
195 The boy.
Well in 1959 he was 13, hormone’s ramping, lived in a 2 up 2 down terrace in a seaside town, father a baker`s rounds-man, mother having died at his birth, step mother, older than most mums and thought in the greater family to be frigid, not a sexual soul, father always deprived. Not that she was not a loving wife and mother, kept the home well, cleaned within an inch of its life, wonderful with the little money in the house, a great cook, and an all-round good wife generally, just with his dad a non-sexual lady. Perhaps with an adult male she felt threatened, who knows.
She, that’s his stepmother, thin, 5foot 7, sandy haired and despite her sexual indifference to his father, which of course he neither knew about or understood. She was never one to hide her-self from the boy, realising he was sexually curious, although, then he didn’t understand the signs, now he recognises them he wonders if he had been more worldly-wise perhaps would it have done him more good.
In the early 60s in that town, young boys played with boys and girls with girls, never the twain to meet and life was very different.
Contact with the opposite sex was infrequent, in fact in the boy`s life, like a lot of lads, it was non-existent. He knew there was physical differences, mostly from his classmates at the all boy`s school he attended, which incidentally, did not at the time teach sex educational subjects.
Everyone of course knew about tits, well they were obvious sticking out from women`s chests, a bit hard to miss even for the dumbest, but between the legs or internally, now that was different!
Nothing was ever mentioned in the family and he, being an `only c***d,’ he was curious, but with no sister to spy on, nor cousins of the right age-group, the two aunts were prissy to say the least, so in reality, well that just left the step mother and he knew it was not going to be easy but he desperately wished to know all about this sex thing, and he didn’t want to upset the family applecart.
So, how to go about it, as I said she had never been one to hide herself from him, oh not nakedness, no that would have been too much, but underclothes, that was acceptable and changing dress or petticoat in front of the lad was normal, and as only the living room was ever heated it was much more convenient during the colder months.
But don’t go off with the idea of flimsy, dainty wisps of lace, we are talking big thick silky elastic rimmed granny knickers some with elastic round the legs as well! Sometimes later it was those white short legged style panties for a change. Vests in `airtex’ pink or white, soft and figure hugging, clinging to her breasts hanging, round and full, not huge but unbrassiered for the most though occasionally encased for special outings in a tidy white and stiff cupped bra.
Then of course there was the girdle, for stockings to even go out to the local shop were normal, either a rubber roll on thing, or more likely the sort that had a line of hooks on the left hip, 6 or 8 suspender straps hanging, nylons rolled up the length of the thin not overly shapely legs the seams always perfect up the leg back, tops clipped to the short rubbery suspenders.
He would sit with a book in his dad`s old chair, reading, and she would sit at the table in front of the fire and the boy rolling up a stocking lifting her foot to her chair edge to slip the toe of the stocking over her toe, all very safe with the older elastic legged knickers, as the knickers wouldn’t gape round the lifted leg, but luckily and probably without thinking she had started wearing the `shorts’ style ones.
His eyes strayed from the page of his book and for perhaps 3 full seconds her sexual area was in sight, not fully, but just enough to interest the lad.
Her nylon cladding slithering up the leg as the leg straightened, then the foot returned to the floor, the loose top of the stocking left at the knee.
He realised she was still oblivious to the exposure and going to slip the second stocking into place, this one the one nearest him, rolling the thin materiel into a doughnut in her hand, then up went the foot, this time he was ready, eyes glued to the top of her leg, waiting expectantly for the glimpse of her hidden sex.
He is rewarded by the expected gap appearing as he expected, there the crinkly soft pink lips, hidden, secret, that place he had so desired to see. He became aware she had stopped moving, the nylon over the toe, he looked up, her eyes met his, she had realised where his gaze lay, he coloured up, expectant of harsh words, but to his surprise nothing came, she just eyed him silently, sitting like a statue, waiting, though he was loath to drop his eyes back to her hidden sex. She waited perhaps 10 long seconds, then as if she realised he had not the bravado to look more. The moment over, she continued with dressing no words having been uttered.
Weeks passed, she dresses each day, slipping her dress over the underclothes as normal, in front of the fire but stockings were slipped on in the toilet, these old houses didn’t run to a bathroom.
Frustration boiled in the boy, even images of his teacher, a big tweedy older chunky lass, accompanied his erotic dreams, he had learnt how to wank, his thin 4 or 5inch stiffy, spitting at first small-amounts, tissues catching the seed such as it was. Soon he was working on himself twice, or three times a day, eager to enjoy the climax, that enormous scramble of emotions that the male so enjoys.
Christmas came and went, his body slowly filling out as muscles developing, and his strength built since he learnt to swim at 10 and he had now joined the school team.
His 14th birthday came and went too, still he had not unravelled the mysteries of a woman`s body, a glimpse of mother`s lips, crinkly bits not as clear as he desperately needed and lasting perhaps 10 long seconds in total was just not enough. He needed more, April passed and May began, his father had a holiday booked, early perhaps but it was a case of all the bakery men wanted holidays, and to make it fair some had early some at the end of the summer and some in the height of summer the, next year they all moved on one block, this year it was their turn for the early spring. His Dad had hired a camper, a tiny little 4 seat Bedford van, known as a dormobile, each year of late, they had done the same, the tiny cramped van taking them to a different area of the country, to explore, pre-planned to the tiniest degree they would set off, dad driving of course, his mum in the back, cook, bottle washer and hostess and the boy learning to navigate from a map sat proudly in the front. This year it was the lake district, 300 plus miles away. All roads at the time heavily used and all Just A class roads of course, no motorways then, sleeping overnight, at the end of a long day, in a lay-bye near Derby. 195 miles over these old roads, in a van with a top speed of perhaps 50mph, those dizzy speeds only hit occasionally, and heavy traffic through towns ensured that the early start and late finish were hard going. Dad and the boy took to the trees for a last pee before turning in, discretely leaving mother the privacy of the van to use the bucket, the only toilet in the little van, and to dress, by the time they returned she was fully dressed for bed.
Disappointed, as he had been hopeful in these cramped conditions, the boy climbed up into his bed, a stretcher style contraption, up in a canvas roof tent above the two single beds made of folded down seats occupied by his parents, the van rocking to the wind of passing traffic as it rushed past. Father exhausted, soon rocked to sleep, snoring peacefully below him, mother on the other side, in full view of the lad, warm she had thrown back her bedding, her winceyette nighty allowing the lad a view of her left breast as the neck was particularly wide, the nipple darker than the flesh, as the passing headlights illuminated the curtained van. He couldn’t resist taking himself in his hand, she turned her head, watching him, exchanging eye contact as before, impassive, silent and as dad snored on, she slowly almost imperceptibly eased down the top of the nightdress allowing him full view of both breasts. He spewed seed onto the sleeping bag in quantity, groaning as he did, a fleeting smile flitted across her face, and she slid the nightdress back and turned away in one slick movement. Tired they were all soon asleep.
Stiffly father rose in the dawn light, desperately struggled from his unfamiliar sleeping bag and disturbing the sleeping family as he got out for a pee, the boy still pretending to slumber as he heard his mother too filling the plastic bucket once more, he was in no position to observe as he would have liked or he knew she would have him down and out of the warm sleeping bag if he moved.
When father returned mother had the kettle on. They were soon on the road once more, the remaining journey over the old A6 took most of the day, not so much slowing them because of the town traffic now, but the hills, the trucks of the day making heavy and slow going of the long gradients, and chances of passing them being infrequent.
It was late afternoon when they arrived, a campsite at a place called Wastwater, up a remote valley, open moorland, surrounded by high fells, a narrow beach and the huge open lake, no facilities, just sheep, scrubland, grass and a small farm a good half mile away, where they paid for two nights and obtained water and milk, there were few folks around this early in the season, just the hardier walkers during the day so they had the choice of level spots, the boy erecting a small tent, to ease things in the little motor.
Privacy, now assured the brambles allowing mother to toilet herself out of the sight of the men, and of course visa-versa.
The sun not granting them its presence that next day they sat in the van for a lot of the day playing cards, eating, reading, generally collecting their energy from the long trip, and watching the rain run down the windows.
After a satisfying meal, it was early to bed, and a long night of for the boy listening to the rain pattering on the thick canvas pup tent. Chance though to “pull the pud or bash the bishop” or whatever the phrase was, which ensured the boy getting off to deep sleep.
They awoke to a bright spring day and after a late breakfast, with a pick-nick in a bag, off they went for what dad referred to, as a `stroll, along the shore line’. Some hours past and the sun became warm, a small hamlet came in sight, a small village with a shop, and a pub. Not big drinkers they had shandies, then a meal and surprisingly with it a second drink, refuelled they shopped for some odd supplies then began the treck back.
Dad never a great walker, was soon left way behind, the younger fitter lad knowing the way from the trip out, leading the way, snapping away with his new little camera, , a birthday present. Mother always a fast walker, bustling along keeping up and soon leaving dad wandering along as he usually did far behind, her happy to be with the boy and to be photographed in the lovely scenery.
They passed across what seemed to be an old meadow, the gate long open in the old dry-stone wall, mother passed through the gap The boy glanced back at his father, wandering along in the far distance, he would be a good few minutes before he caught them up. She then said she needed to pee, telling the lad to keep watch for walkers, she dropped her panties to her ankles, pulled her dress up at the back and squatted beside the wall, she began to stream, surprising the lad by peeing in his full sight. The jet spurting from under the all covering flowery dress, d****d over her knees. Again, that brief eye contact, but this time he dropped his eyes to the thin stream of urine, she sliding the dress back allowing him to see the mound between her legs, hairy but not excessively, the stream coming from below that, but still not a sight of the centre of his eager minds imagination. Moments past, the stream dried, his eyes never leaving the area as her right hand with a tissue from her handbag, wiped the last drips away, her left keeping the dress from getting in the wet.
She was carefully ignoring his presence, it was as if she was totally alone, bending to draw the panties up her bare legs, raising the dress still more to settle the thing`s back in to place, his eyes watching carefully as those crinkled lips were covered once more, and the dress dropped back like the curtains closing on a play.
Father appeared, strolling along not a care in the world, she by now stood up waiting for him and the lad again walking ahead. Perhaps to hide the stiffy he now had pushing out his shorts.
That the lad in later life has a pee fetish as well as an interest in breast`s is perhaps not surprising. The holiday progressed, on the third day they moved camp, another farmers field, near Kendal this time, less remote, they did the visitor thing, shopping, sightseeing, two days and a move to a proper camp site near Windermere, this one with a washroom and a toilet. And to his amazement it was here that he had what he would rate as the “his best sighting yet!”
Mother said that they all needed to bathe, apparently, according to her they all stank! He hadn’t noticed, but there he was male and less touchy on that subject! Dad went first, a strip wash in the rudimentary single sink wash room hut.
When he returned he reported that there was no lock on the door, so she decided that the boy could accompany her to secure the door and probably to ensure that like all lads he didn’t scrimp on the wash behind the ears front, 14 year olds in her eyes being less scrupulous about washing!
Loaded with clean clothes, wash bags and towels they walked to the wash-house, once in, she waited till he had scrubbed his body from top to bottom her back against the in-swinging door, her eyes never leaving his totally naked body. His involuntary errection causing him to redden as she silently watched and waited till he was clean and dry.
He went to dress but she stopped him with a silent hand gesture, then telling him to “keep that door closed”, he took her place at the door his back against the wooden boards, wondering if he should face the door and allow her some privacy, though his brain screamed `NO’, she didn’t avert her eyes from your tool so now it`s her turn! The brain won! He stood and blatantly watched, she, no doubt knew he would!
Her back to him she removed the dress, then the slip, bending to place them on the chair the only item of furniture in the place, bar a waste basket and a big old semi foxed mirror on the wall over the sink. Light in the place was supplied by a pair of small windows high on each of the end wall`s, it was the only illumination.
Facing the sink, her back firmly towards him and the door. she removed her vest, sliding it off over her head. Tossing it casually onto the chair, allowing him just a glimpse of the side of her breast, her eyes on the big old mirror watching him as he missed nothing of her body.
Both knowing perhaps in their different-ways that the next few minutes would be a landmark in his young life.
A sink full of cold-water (there was no hot supply) and the cool room speeding the wet soapy flannel which soon had her top lathered. She dropped her panties stepping from the flimsy items, leaving them on the floor to save bending and to preserve her dignity as long as she could, her legs opened, her back still to him. That flannel flashed between the legs, he could see her knuckles below the crutch as it slid back and forth. She twisted and the soapy flannel slid over her narrow buttocks, and her arse,
She rinsed the flannel and refilled the sink. Then she asked him to wash her back which in the tiny hut he could do without moving from the door. She took the flannel rinsed it again then held it out to him once more, she whispered, “remove the soap.” His hand shook as he took the proffered cloth and then began at her back, then her buttocks, and legs, the door forgotten. That done she again took the flannel rinsed it and then returned it to him facing him completely, he instinctively stepped back against the door, scanning his eyes over her middle-aged body from breast to crutch and back. His mouth opened slightly and he was about to say something but her finger touched his lips, and she hissed that he “was not to tell anyone, ever!” he nodded, then washed down from her shoulders, first both arms, then realising there was no resistance, tentatively began on her right breast, she stood and waited as the cloth rinsed off all traces of soap, finishing at the nipple in a soft caress, then it was the turn of the other breast which he softly treated in the same way, a fleeting smile crossing her face as he lifted each in turn supposedly to work under the soft sack`s, more likely to feel the weight of them.
Again, she took the flannel and rinsed it out, he soon rinsed the flat belly, flipped the flannel into the sink and took the big fluffy towel to dry the pieces so far finished again hefting the breasts once more to get access. Her eyes closed as a sign of her enjoyment of the lads cosseting.
Then to his amazement she whispered that “he had best finish the job as she knew he desperately wanted too explore really!
He swiftly collected the flannel once again, drained it then and ran it over her most precious hair covered mound, her eyes still stayed closed as with hands that trembled he slid it between her especially opened legs. He could not believe his luck, those crinkly lips soft trembling and warm just a damp flannel thickness away. He knelt down on the cold floor, threw the flannel at the sink, the pretence over and taking the towel once more he gently dried her, opening her slot of life, to dry her properly and perhaps get that all important sight of whatever was available. The folds caught his eye, the tiny hood, the mini penis shaped button, the lips, the smooth shiny pink inner skin, it was all mesmerising. After a while she tapped him on the shoulder, how long he had knelt there he had no idea, he stood kissed her on the lips, and thanked her, knowing or at least believing the whole experience had been a great sacrifice for her.
His tool was now stiff as a ramrod, she leant forward and lightly touched the stiff fully skinned member and it instantly spat its seed at her, each spurt accompanied with a spring of the thing, drooping just a little between each ejection. three or four healthy gouts, and a dribble, again she smiled, then turned and began dressing in the fresh clothing she had in the bag, instinctively he knew it was over, throwing on his pants shorts and a vest, then waiting for her to become his mother once again.
She collected the washing into the bag and said, “your dad will be wondering where we have got too,” and together they returned to the van, relieved to find his Dad asleep on the front seats, paper in hand, and his pipe cold, still in his mouth. His curiosity sated the rest of the holiday was tame throughout, they worked their way south, a day or two here, a day there, then a last longish drive to home from Windsor.
The whole episode was as promised, never mentioned during the rest of her whole lifetime. Father never once having an inkling of his sons “enlightenment!”
However, urinating being to her a most natural action, on a few occasions when they were out alone together, walking, or picnicking knowing or sensing his fetish, she would urinate in places that were discrete, but in his full view, smiling at him the while, as if to say, “remember?” When swimming, in the sea together knowing what a turn-on it was to him she would hold his hand to her swimsuit crutch as the warm pee flowed over his fingers out of sight of the folks around. He in turn would flutter his fingers against the suit stimulating the “crinkly bits” to her obvious joy, it was their secret.
She`s gone now and he now an older man, married, curious of how, or even If, his lovely wife ever managed to educate his own son, he secretly hopes so.
Well in 1959 he was 13, hormone’s ramping, lived in a 2 up 2 down terrace in a seaside town, father a baker`s rounds-man, mother having died at his birth, step mother, older than most mums and thought in the greater family to be frigid, not a sexual soul, father always deprived. Not that she was not a loving wife and mother, kept the home well, cleaned within an inch of its life, wonderful with the little money in the house, a great cook, and an all-round good wife generally, just with his dad a non-sexual lady. Perhaps with an adult male she felt threatened, who knows.
She, that’s his stepmother, thin, 5foot 7, sandy haired and despite her sexual indifference to his father, which of course he neither knew about or understood. She was never one to hide her-self from the boy, realising he was sexually curious, although, then he didn’t understand the signs, now he recognises them he wonders if he had been more worldly-wise perhaps would it have done him more good.
In the early 60s in that town, young boys played with boys and girls with girls, never the twain to meet and life was very different.
Contact with the opposite sex was infrequent, in fact in the boy`s life, like a lot of lads, it was non-existent. He knew there was physical differences, mostly from his classmates at the all boy`s school he attended, which incidentally, did not at the time teach sex educational subjects.
Everyone of course knew about tits, well they were obvious sticking out from women`s chests, a bit hard to miss even for the dumbest, but between the legs or internally, now that was different!
Nothing was ever mentioned in the family and he, being an `only c***d,’ he was curious, but with no sister to spy on, nor cousins of the right age-group, the two aunts were prissy to say the least, so in reality, well that just left the step mother and he knew it was not going to be easy but he desperately wished to know all about this sex thing, and he didn’t want to upset the family applecart.
So, how to go about it, as I said she had never been one to hide herself from him, oh not nakedness, no that would have been too much, but underclothes, that was acceptable and changing dress or petticoat in front of the lad was normal, and as only the living room was ever heated it was much more convenient during the colder months.
But don’t go off with the idea of flimsy, dainty wisps of lace, we are talking big thick silky elastic rimmed granny knickers some with elastic round the legs as well! Sometimes later it was those white short legged style panties for a change. Vests in `airtex’ pink or white, soft and figure hugging, clinging to her breasts hanging, round and full, not huge but unbrassiered for the most though occasionally encased for special outings in a tidy white and stiff cupped bra.
Then of course there was the girdle, for stockings to even go out to the local shop were normal, either a rubber roll on thing, or more likely the sort that had a line of hooks on the left hip, 6 or 8 suspender straps hanging, nylons rolled up the length of the thin not overly shapely legs the seams always perfect up the leg back, tops clipped to the short rubbery suspenders.
He would sit with a book in his dad`s old chair, reading, and she would sit at the table in front of the fire and the boy rolling up a stocking lifting her foot to her chair edge to slip the toe of the stocking over her toe, all very safe with the older elastic legged knickers, as the knickers wouldn’t gape round the lifted leg, but luckily and probably without thinking she had started wearing the `shorts’ style ones.
His eyes strayed from the page of his book and for perhaps 3 full seconds her sexual area was in sight, not fully, but just enough to interest the lad.
Her nylon cladding slithering up the leg as the leg straightened, then the foot returned to the floor, the loose top of the stocking left at the knee.
He realised she was still oblivious to the exposure and going to slip the second stocking into place, this one the one nearest him, rolling the thin materiel into a doughnut in her hand, then up went the foot, this time he was ready, eyes glued to the top of her leg, waiting expectantly for the glimpse of her hidden sex.
He is rewarded by the expected gap appearing as he expected, there the crinkly soft pink lips, hidden, secret, that place he had so desired to see. He became aware she had stopped moving, the nylon over the toe, he looked up, her eyes met his, she had realised where his gaze lay, he coloured up, expectant of harsh words, but to his surprise nothing came, she just eyed him silently, sitting like a statue, waiting, though he was loath to drop his eyes back to her hidden sex. She waited perhaps 10 long seconds, then as if she realised he had not the bravado to look more. The moment over, she continued with dressing no words having been uttered.
Weeks passed, she dresses each day, slipping her dress over the underclothes as normal, in front of the fire but stockings were slipped on in the toilet, these old houses didn’t run to a bathroom.
Frustration boiled in the boy, even images of his teacher, a big tweedy older chunky lass, accompanied his erotic dreams, he had learnt how to wank, his thin 4 or 5inch stiffy, spitting at first small-amounts, tissues catching the seed such as it was. Soon he was working on himself twice, or three times a day, eager to enjoy the climax, that enormous scramble of emotions that the male so enjoys.
Christmas came and went, his body slowly filling out as muscles developing, and his strength built since he learnt to swim at 10 and he had now joined the school team.
His 14th birthday came and went too, still he had not unravelled the mysteries of a woman`s body, a glimpse of mother`s lips, crinkly bits not as clear as he desperately needed and lasting perhaps 10 long seconds in total was just not enough. He needed more, April passed and May began, his father had a holiday booked, early perhaps but it was a case of all the bakery men wanted holidays, and to make it fair some had early some at the end of the summer and some in the height of summer the, next year they all moved on one block, this year it was their turn for the early spring. His Dad had hired a camper, a tiny little 4 seat Bedford van, known as a dormobile, each year of late, they had done the same, the tiny cramped van taking them to a different area of the country, to explore, pre-planned to the tiniest degree they would set off, dad driving of course, his mum in the back, cook, bottle washer and hostess and the boy learning to navigate from a map sat proudly in the front. This year it was the lake district, 300 plus miles away. All roads at the time heavily used and all Just A class roads of course, no motorways then, sleeping overnight, at the end of a long day, in a lay-bye near Derby. 195 miles over these old roads, in a van with a top speed of perhaps 50mph, those dizzy speeds only hit occasionally, and heavy traffic through towns ensured that the early start and late finish were hard going. Dad and the boy took to the trees for a last pee before turning in, discretely leaving mother the privacy of the van to use the bucket, the only toilet in the little van, and to dress, by the time they returned she was fully dressed for bed.
Disappointed, as he had been hopeful in these cramped conditions, the boy climbed up into his bed, a stretcher style contraption, up in a canvas roof tent above the two single beds made of folded down seats occupied by his parents, the van rocking to the wind of passing traffic as it rushed past. Father exhausted, soon rocked to sleep, snoring peacefully below him, mother on the other side, in full view of the lad, warm she had thrown back her bedding, her winceyette nighty allowing the lad a view of her left breast as the neck was particularly wide, the nipple darker than the flesh, as the passing headlights illuminated the curtained van. He couldn’t resist taking himself in his hand, she turned her head, watching him, exchanging eye contact as before, impassive, silent and as dad snored on, she slowly almost imperceptibly eased down the top of the nightdress allowing him full view of both breasts. He spewed seed onto the sleeping bag in quantity, groaning as he did, a fleeting smile flitted across her face, and she slid the nightdress back and turned away in one slick movement. Tired they were all soon asleep.
Stiffly father rose in the dawn light, desperately struggled from his unfamiliar sleeping bag and disturbing the sleeping family as he got out for a pee, the boy still pretending to slumber as he heard his mother too filling the plastic bucket once more, he was in no position to observe as he would have liked or he knew she would have him down and out of the warm sleeping bag if he moved.
When father returned mother had the kettle on. They were soon on the road once more, the remaining journey over the old A6 took most of the day, not so much slowing them because of the town traffic now, but the hills, the trucks of the day making heavy and slow going of the long gradients, and chances of passing them being infrequent.
It was late afternoon when they arrived, a campsite at a place called Wastwater, up a remote valley, open moorland, surrounded by high fells, a narrow beach and the huge open lake, no facilities, just sheep, scrubland, grass and a small farm a good half mile away, where they paid for two nights and obtained water and milk, there were few folks around this early in the season, just the hardier walkers during the day so they had the choice of level spots, the boy erecting a small tent, to ease things in the little motor.
Privacy, now assured the brambles allowing mother to toilet herself out of the sight of the men, and of course visa-versa.
The sun not granting them its presence that next day they sat in the van for a lot of the day playing cards, eating, reading, generally collecting their energy from the long trip, and watching the rain run down the windows.
After a satisfying meal, it was early to bed, and a long night of for the boy listening to the rain pattering on the thick canvas pup tent. Chance though to “pull the pud or bash the bishop” or whatever the phrase was, which ensured the boy getting off to deep sleep.
They awoke to a bright spring day and after a late breakfast, with a pick-nick in a bag, off they went for what dad referred to, as a `stroll, along the shore line’. Some hours past and the sun became warm, a small hamlet came in sight, a small village with a shop, and a pub. Not big drinkers they had shandies, then a meal and surprisingly with it a second drink, refuelled they shopped for some odd supplies then began the treck back.
Dad never a great walker, was soon left way behind, the younger fitter lad knowing the way from the trip out, leading the way, snapping away with his new little camera, , a birthday present. Mother always a fast walker, bustling along keeping up and soon leaving dad wandering along as he usually did far behind, her happy to be with the boy and to be photographed in the lovely scenery.
They passed across what seemed to be an old meadow, the gate long open in the old dry-stone wall, mother passed through the gap The boy glanced back at his father, wandering along in the far distance, he would be a good few minutes before he caught them up. She then said she needed to pee, telling the lad to keep watch for walkers, she dropped her panties to her ankles, pulled her dress up at the back and squatted beside the wall, she began to stream, surprising the lad by peeing in his full sight. The jet spurting from under the all covering flowery dress, d****d over her knees. Again, that brief eye contact, but this time he dropped his eyes to the thin stream of urine, she sliding the dress back allowing him to see the mound between her legs, hairy but not excessively, the stream coming from below that, but still not a sight of the centre of his eager minds imagination. Moments past, the stream dried, his eyes never leaving the area as her right hand with a tissue from her handbag, wiped the last drips away, her left keeping the dress from getting in the wet.
She was carefully ignoring his presence, it was as if she was totally alone, bending to draw the panties up her bare legs, raising the dress still more to settle the thing`s back in to place, his eyes watching carefully as those crinkled lips were covered once more, and the dress dropped back like the curtains closing on a play.
Father appeared, strolling along not a care in the world, she by now stood up waiting for him and the lad again walking ahead. Perhaps to hide the stiffy he now had pushing out his shorts.
That the lad in later life has a pee fetish as well as an interest in breast`s is perhaps not surprising. The holiday progressed, on the third day they moved camp, another farmers field, near Kendal this time, less remote, they did the visitor thing, shopping, sightseeing, two days and a move to a proper camp site near Windermere, this one with a washroom and a toilet. And to his amazement it was here that he had what he would rate as the “his best sighting yet!”
Mother said that they all needed to bathe, apparently, according to her they all stank! He hadn’t noticed, but there he was male and less touchy on that subject! Dad went first, a strip wash in the rudimentary single sink wash room hut.
When he returned he reported that there was no lock on the door, so she decided that the boy could accompany her to secure the door and probably to ensure that like all lads he didn’t scrimp on the wash behind the ears front, 14 year olds in her eyes being less scrupulous about washing!
Loaded with clean clothes, wash bags and towels they walked to the wash-house, once in, she waited till he had scrubbed his body from top to bottom her back against the in-swinging door, her eyes never leaving his totally naked body. His involuntary errection causing him to redden as she silently watched and waited till he was clean and dry.
He went to dress but she stopped him with a silent hand gesture, then telling him to “keep that door closed”, he took her place at the door his back against the wooden boards, wondering if he should face the door and allow her some privacy, though his brain screamed `NO’, she didn’t avert her eyes from your tool so now it`s her turn! The brain won! He stood and blatantly watched, she, no doubt knew he would!
Her back to him she removed the dress, then the slip, bending to place them on the chair the only item of furniture in the place, bar a waste basket and a big old semi foxed mirror on the wall over the sink. Light in the place was supplied by a pair of small windows high on each of the end wall`s, it was the only illumination.
Facing the sink, her back firmly towards him and the door. she removed her vest, sliding it off over her head. Tossing it casually onto the chair, allowing him just a glimpse of the side of her breast, her eyes on the big old mirror watching him as he missed nothing of her body.
Both knowing perhaps in their different-ways that the next few minutes would be a landmark in his young life.
A sink full of cold-water (there was no hot supply) and the cool room speeding the wet soapy flannel which soon had her top lathered. She dropped her panties stepping from the flimsy items, leaving them on the floor to save bending and to preserve her dignity as long as she could, her legs opened, her back still to him. That flannel flashed between the legs, he could see her knuckles below the crutch as it slid back and forth. She twisted and the soapy flannel slid over her narrow buttocks, and her arse,
She rinsed the flannel and refilled the sink. Then she asked him to wash her back which in the tiny hut he could do without moving from the door. She took the flannel rinsed it again then held it out to him once more, she whispered, “remove the soap.” His hand shook as he took the proffered cloth and then began at her back, then her buttocks, and legs, the door forgotten. That done she again took the flannel rinsed it and then returned it to him facing him completely, he instinctively stepped back against the door, scanning his eyes over her middle-aged body from breast to crutch and back. His mouth opened slightly and he was about to say something but her finger touched his lips, and she hissed that he “was not to tell anyone, ever!” he nodded, then washed down from her shoulders, first both arms, then realising there was no resistance, tentatively began on her right breast, she stood and waited as the cloth rinsed off all traces of soap, finishing at the nipple in a soft caress, then it was the turn of the other breast which he softly treated in the same way, a fleeting smile crossing her face as he lifted each in turn supposedly to work under the soft sack`s, more likely to feel the weight of them.
Again, she took the flannel and rinsed it out, he soon rinsed the flat belly, flipped the flannel into the sink and took the big fluffy towel to dry the pieces so far finished again hefting the breasts once more to get access. Her eyes closed as a sign of her enjoyment of the lads cosseting.
Then to his amazement she whispered that “he had best finish the job as she knew he desperately wanted too explore really!
He swiftly collected the flannel once again, drained it then and ran it over her most precious hair covered mound, her eyes still stayed closed as with hands that trembled he slid it between her especially opened legs. He could not believe his luck, those crinkly lips soft trembling and warm just a damp flannel thickness away. He knelt down on the cold floor, threw the flannel at the sink, the pretence over and taking the towel once more he gently dried her, opening her slot of life, to dry her properly and perhaps get that all important sight of whatever was available. The folds caught his eye, the tiny hood, the mini penis shaped button, the lips, the smooth shiny pink inner skin, it was all mesmerising. After a while she tapped him on the shoulder, how long he had knelt there he had no idea, he stood kissed her on the lips, and thanked her, knowing or at least believing the whole experience had been a great sacrifice for her.
His tool was now stiff as a ramrod, she leant forward and lightly touched the stiff fully skinned member and it instantly spat its seed at her, each spurt accompanied with a spring of the thing, drooping just a little between each ejection. three or four healthy gouts, and a dribble, again she smiled, then turned and began dressing in the fresh clothing she had in the bag, instinctively he knew it was over, throwing on his pants shorts and a vest, then waiting for her to become his mother once again.
She collected the washing into the bag and said, “your dad will be wondering where we have got too,” and together they returned to the van, relieved to find his Dad asleep on the front seats, paper in hand, and his pipe cold, still in his mouth. His curiosity sated the rest of the holiday was tame throughout, they worked their way south, a day or two here, a day there, then a last longish drive to home from Windsor.
The whole episode was as promised, never mentioned during the rest of her whole lifetime. Father never once having an inkling of his sons “enlightenment!”
However, urinating being to her a most natural action, on a few occasions when they were out alone together, walking, or picnicking knowing or sensing his fetish, she would urinate in places that were discrete, but in his full view, smiling at him the while, as if to say, “remember?” When swimming, in the sea together knowing what a turn-on it was to him she would hold his hand to her swimsuit crutch as the warm pee flowed over his fingers out of sight of the folks around. He in turn would flutter his fingers against the suit stimulating the “crinkly bits” to her obvious joy, it was their secret.
She`s gone now and he now an older man, married, curious of how, or even If, his lovely wife ever managed to educate his own son, he secretly hopes so.
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