So ended my initial seduction. Should I call it that? What else can I? I’d planned it to see if my man phobia was age-related. Well, it looked as though it might be. Even though I hadn’t fucked John (yet) or even given him a blow job (yet), I’d felt none of the panic attack symptoms that usually stalk me in the presence of men, especially when alone with men. I hoped, at our next meeting (can’t call it a date), I might get further, and he might be able to hold on longer. And I’d find out a bit more about myself.

But, perhaps I was being premature. John certainly didn’t look as though he wanted the afternoon to end, even if his substantial cock was less than substantial at that moment. I’d see where things went and see if I could find out more about him and his mother.

“Does your mother wear stockings?” A question like that, asked out of the blue, to a shy nineteen-year-old, was probably stupid, but he answered.

“No.” The reply was instant. It told me he was familiar with his mother's attire, which interested me. I’m devious, but I wanted to find out whether there was any chance she might join in our fun, and ascertaining her lingerie style, I thought, might give me a clue.

“So you’ve looked?”

His beetroot face returned. “Don’t worry, John, I won't tell her and I’d bet ninety percent of boys your age do the same thing.” I had no idea, actually, but I needed to reassure him he was "normal."

“Yeah.”

“Up her skirt, or in her lingerie drawer?”

“Both.”

“Does she wear sexy lingerie?”

“Sometimes.”

“Just special occasions?”

“Not always. Sometimes, when she goes out.”

“With your dad?”

“Yeah, but other times, too.”

“Special times?”

“How’d you mean?”

“If she’s meeting friends or going to the cinema, for example.”

“I dunno.”

“Do you think she’s meeting a man or woman?”

“What? For sex?” His voice had risen an octave. He sounded incredulous.

“No. No way.” I’d pressed enough. It was interesting she sometimes wore sexy undies, but then I was relying on John's definition of sexy. A nineteen-year-old virgin might not be the most reliable person to define that. I changed tack.

“How do you know when she wears them?” A hesitation. The first in a while.

“I check the laundry basket.” He looked a little guilty, but what a candid answer! I know I’d just given him the show of his life, but I was a stranger. Perhaps that’s why he felt he could tell me. Or perhaps the view in front of him had removed his ability to refuse to tell.

“Do you wank into her knickers?” The embarrassment receded. He was now reliving his thoughts of having his mother's knickers wrapped around his cock. A long hesitation. I thought I’d gone too far. I relieved him of the need to reply.

“Would you like to wank into mine?” I picked them up from beside me where they’d been since he took them off and dangled them in front of him like a biscuit in front of a dog. His eyes widened, “Yeah!”

I screwed them up and tossed them to him. If he did cum into them, I guessed the chances of me getting a blow job or fuck would recede further, but I was keen to get him relaxed and was sure there’d be other opportunities.

I undid the remaining buttons on my blouse and pulled my other tit out of the bra, pushed them together, and opened my legs. Such a demure, sophisticated pose! It seemed to please him, though!

As he was wanking himself, his control seemed better.

“When you’re ready, cum over my face,” I said with a smile. He didn’t answer. He was in the zone, concentrating on my fingers, which were alternating between teasing my pussy and tweaking my nipples.

It didn’t take long. The spurt from his cock was well aimed, more by accident than design I think, his hot cum landing on my cheeks, lips, and forehead. Not that the quantity was anything like the first time.

He’d not reacted badly to what I did with his first load, so I repeated it. This time taking time to suck it off my fingers while I stared into his eyes. Yes, John, this could — will — be your cock.

Although totally flaccid, he was still wanking. After I’d cleaned my face, I said, “Let me clean you.”

I’d thought to take him in my mouth to see if I could resurrect his manhood. I held out a hand to encourage him to step forward. He did. That’s when the alarm bells sounded in my head. out of nowhere, a klaxon at 150 decibels. I had thought I’d stopped them. Dismantled them. Sold them for scrap. Shit, shit, shit.

My body trembled. I assume John thought it was excitement. I just couldn’t take it in my mouth. Too many dark connotations still lurking in hidden recesses. I fought against the feeling. Buggered if I’d give in. This was a harmless nineteen-year-old boy for god’s sake, not some nineteen-stone drunken arsehole. I managed a compromise: to touch his cock, to place it in the palm of my hand, to run a finger of the other hand over his helmet. There wasn’t much cum there. I hadn’t thought there would be, but enough for me to look into his eyes and suck off my finger. The action produced a twitch in his cock. The action soothed my trembling.

What next? Could I get him hard again? If I did, what would I do with it? I couldn’t fuck him; I’d just found out my current limit. It could be embarrassing for us both. I’d call a halt, take him home, assess where I was, and feel miserable. The weird thing was I didn’t feel miserable. With him still standing with his drooping cock inches away from my face was not the time for analysis, though. I’d deal with my concerns later. For now, I patted his cock and said, “I’ve had a great time. Really sexy. I hope you have. Would you like to do it again?” That should have been a rhetorical question. There was little doubt what his answer would be, “yeah, cool.”

“Okay, get yourself decent. I’ll drive you home. We’ll fix something later.” I left it open. I had a niggling thought about my ability to keep him happy if all he’d get was hand jobs, but as I said, I’d think it through later.

I drove him back home and helped him to the door with the pile of books. His mother, Elizabeth, invited me in for a cup of tea, which I accepted. I didn’t much fancy the tea, but I did her! I had no idea if she might be bisexual, or that she would be interested in playing sexy games, but there was no harm in exploring the possibility, and it would keep my mind off the afternoon's success/failure.

I hadn’t changed because I hadn’t expected the invite, so I was still in my skirt and blouse. My boobs were tucked away in my bra and I’d re-buttoned my blouse, but hadn’t bothered to put my knickers on. Would my outfit cause any raised eyebrows? Not because of the lack of knickers. I had no thoughts anyone would see up there, but because I’d entertained her son dressed that way. Elizabeth hadn’t reacted when she’d opened the door, though, so I assumed I was in the clear. She is about my height, perhaps slightly shorter but slender with a well-proportioned bust. There was no denying now that I was bi. I was eyeing her up sexually just, no doubt, as you men would.

We went into their lounge while John disappeared upstairs with his books. I suspected he’d be too embarrassed to sit in the same room as me and his parents. Elizabeth’s husband was sitting reading and introduced himself as Chris. He had similar looks to John, not devilishly handsome, but hardly Shrek the Ogre. I shook hands and accepted the offered seat.

“How’d it go?” Elizabeth asked. My mind was still on the fun of the afternoon and I had a brief panic that that was what she was asking about but realised it wasn’t.

“Yes, good. He was pleased with the books, and said they were the ones his tutor had recommended.”

“And socially?” Another panic moment! I was feeling guilty!

“He was very quiet, and reserved, to start with, but opened up when we started discussing the books and his studies.”

“That’s something, I suppose,” offered Chris. “We understand his tutors think he’s very bright, but he lacks any social skills and won’t make friends.”

I saw an opening to make any future ‘liaison’ with John less problematic. “Well, as I said, he did open up to me over the books. I’m hardly right to be a friend, but if you like, he can pop round from time to time to discuss anything from his course. Might help.”

They accepted my offer at face value and I left it at that.

We had a cup of tea, a pleasant chat, and I drove home with a desire to bed Elizabeth.

Debrief: I decided the day had been a cup-half-full day rather than half-empty. Yes, I’d bottled out, and earlier than I’d thought. In my mind, I’d anticipated — hoped — that I’d be able to give him a blow job, even if I couldn’t go the whole way, but when I thought about what I’d done compared to my attitude, a few short months ago, it was a major step forward. A man and I were alone in the house. A man I’d encouraged to strip off. A man I’d encouraged to show me his cock. I’d deliberately done things to encourage him to wank. He’s sprayed my face with cum. I’d touched his cock. Wanked his cock. Yes, on balance, a day to be happy with. Onward.