Homecoming

I suppose some might view this written document as a confession. A lonely woman confessing to her obsession with bedding muscular young college boys. I don't think of it that way. To me it's more of a memoir, a remembrance of the autumn of 2017 and the nice new friends I made, friends who helped me to feel young again, friends who made me forget, at least for a little while, that I'm a woman drifting into the Autumn of life, alone. I guess I should start with some background...

I've always loved the look of an English cottage. Here in New England the old-world cottage style seems to fit right in. My humble little home sits in the heart of a small town, right on the edge of the campus of an Ivy League University, just a stone's throw from it's athletic facilities. It's a long stone's throw, but many of the boys who walk past my front garden could make it, their arms strong from working in the weight rooms, their bodies lean and muscular from years of athletic pursuits. They're fine looking boys, and they make this lonely woman's heart flutter more than it should.

In the old days I would have been known as the spinster who lives in the little red house behind the wrought iron fence. It seems odd to think of myself as a spinster, but I guess it's an old-fashioned word that fits. I'm forty-seven years old, which in this day and age doesn't seem such a bad age to be single. With all the divorce these days there are plenty of men my age looking for mates, but I'm not drawn to any of them and I'll tell you why. It's the constant parade of hard-bodied college boys walking past my front garden that's made a mess of my sense of reason. It's not just the visual part that scrambles me, although that might be enough. The real problem is how polite some of those young men are, saying hello to me when they walk by, telling me how nice my garden is. They often ask about a particular plant, the eye-catching Colocasia. It's called Elephant's Ear for good reason — it's leaves are gigantic, each one nearly as big as I am. It's a tropical jungle plant that's not hardy here in New England, but it's such a powerful lure for the young men I make the extra effort to cut it back, dig it up and store it in my basement every winter.

Oh, my, I used the word "lure," didn't I. Maybe this is more of a confession than I'd like to admit. I guess if I'm being honest I should stop referring to them as "young men" and just call them boys. That's the way I think of them. They're my boys. When they arrive here in the fall as freshman they're just old enough to be legal, but they're still boys. Their experiences here at the university are what shape them into men, taught by their professors, coached by their coaches, loved by their girlfriends. For quite a few of the boys it's their first experience with girls in a sexual way. I can sometimes spot those virgin boys, but not always. Boys these days are different than they used to be, the porn on their phones giving them knowledge kids didn't have back in my day, but the nervous shyness is still there when they're confronted by a real woman's cleavage; even more so, I've found, when that cleavage is moist with the sweat of hard work and flecked with rich garden loam.

Yes, I admit I'm a bit shameless with my breasts. They're powerful tools, but of course women have known that since the beginning of time. It seems to me we women owe a debt of gratitude to the missionaries who tamed our native ways and got us to cover up. If we were all walking around naked like savages the incredible power of the hidden wouldn't be a tool at our disposal, so I say thank you to those puritans, thank you for empowering the cleavage, and the bare nipple under the t-shirt, and the gentle sway of an untethered breast under a loose shirt. I've witnessed time and time again the cock hardening power of those simple things. Freshman college boys, as you may have guessed, are hair-trigger horny, and I haven't met one yet who doesn't like big tits.

It seems awfully risqué to write phrases like "cock hardening" and "big tits" in a story about myself, but I suppose that's the only way this tale can go if I want to remain truthful. I've never spoken about any of this with my few friends, and I guess maybe that's why I want to get something down on paper, so I can look back on this little memoir when I'm old and gray and say yes, those marvelous things with those boys really did happen to me. As for the here and now, I must admit that my writing will be interrupted in about an hour. I'll have a 10PM visitor at my back door, the door that opens onto a brick path that leads to the dark ally behind my little house. Tomorrow is a work day for me, and my young visitor has an 8AM class in the School of Management building, but he and I just came to an agreement this afternoon and I'm eager to spend some private time with him. He's a freshman, on the tennis team, and he's in the most remarkable shape. The longest legs and a sweet young smile. But this story isn't about him. It's about the recently passed month of September, a glorious late-summer month of golden light, warm evenings and new friends. There was lots of work to do in the front garden, and I was glad of the warm days...

—

"Hi. Beautiful day, isn't it?"

That was my greeting to a dark-haired boy. He was walking slowly down the sidewalk, typing a text on his phone with his thumbs. He looked up and saw me in my garden, eyes on my eyes, and then lower. I'd worn a gray tank top that day, with no bra underneath. It's a cute shirt, a pocket sewn over one breast with an appliquéd cartoonish head of a cat peaking out of it. I love how it draws eyes down where I want them, to one of my best features.

"Oh. Yeah, nice," the boy said. His eyes darted back up to mine. His face turned the sweetest shade of pink when he realized he'd said it while staring at my breasts.

"What sport do you play?" I asked. He was clearly an athlete, lean but muscular, with a duffel bag type backpack slung over one shoulder.

"Swim team," he said.

"Freshman?" I asked. I was pretty confident I knew the answer, based on how young he looked. My nipples bloomed the way they often do when I think of freshman boys, and my new young friend took glancing notice of the way they pushed out my shirt.

"Uh huh."

"Good luck this year," I said. "You're going to love it here."

"Thanks," he said, adding an awkward "You too."

It's easy to check practice schedules online, so I made sure I was out in the garden the next time he walked by. My breasts did their pointy thing as soon as I saw him, and I'd readied myself for their display by wearing a ribbed v-neck t-shirt that forms to me in a delightful way. It's not extra tight like what a Playboy girl would wear, but it does show off some of the best features of my full breasts — the smooth curves at the sides, the thickness of my easily aroused nipples, and the round, soft curve below them.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as my dark-haired swimmer approached. He was looking at me instead of his phone, even when he was half a block away. I smiled and my skin felt tingly as it sometimes does. I let him get closer before I pretended to notice him.

"Oh, hi!" I said. "How's my swimmer today?"

My swimmer smiled. "Good. How are you?"

"I'm wonderful," I said. "How could I not be on a day like this?" I lifted my arms toward the sky for emphasis, tingling again when I felt my breasts lift and my thin white shirt tighten around them. My arms came down and my swimmer's face looked deliciously happy and young, pink again from embarrassment at where his eyes had been.

"On your way to practice?" I asked.

"Oh. Yeah," he said.

I smiled at how confused he looked at such a simple question. "I hope Coach doesn't work you too hard. I was hoping maybe I could hire you to help me dig up and move a heavy plant."

He looked excited. "Really?" he said. "Yeah, sure! But you don't have to hire me. I'd like to help."

"Good," I said. "What's your schedule like? Do you have an hour or two tomorrow, maybe?"

My dark-haired swimmer showed up at 10AM, wearing loose shorts and an athletic department sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. He looked tired, so the first order of business was coffee. We sat on my front steps and he told me all about where he was from and how he got into swimming. I told him about the work I did in my home office, editing manuscripts and the occasional screenplay. He said he had wondered why I was always home. I wondered how long he'd been noticing me.

Unlike some of the shyer boys, my dark-haired swimmer was very easy to talk to, polite and happy to answer any question I threw at him. "How's your love live?" was a fun one, as it often is. He blushed and I couldn't help but smile. So cute, my dark-haired swimmer. He told me he'd had a girlfriend back home, but they both knew it wasn't a marrying kind of relationship so they broke up before they went off to college, about a month ago. He said there was a girl in his dorm that he liked, but nothing romantic had started yet. I was pleased to hear that. You may think I have no scruples, but I do. I've had dalliances with a few married men, but I only bring single boys into my bedroom. Boys without girlfriends. I want their college experience to be exciting, not confusing or angst ridden. And lord knows there are plenty of lonely single boys at college who can use a little loving to boost their confidence. My dark-haired swimmer didn't appear to need a confidence boost, but he had an amazing body, a cute smile, and he was single. That was enough for me.

We dug up and moved a large daylily plant. A good gardener would divide it into smaller, healthier plants, but I keep it in one big clump and move it from place to place, with help from my boys. My dark-haired swimmer and I got plenty sweaty, my wedgewood-blue t-shirt clinging to me, his athletic department sweatshirt tossed on the ground. If you've ever watched the Olympics on television you know what a male swimmer's upper body looks like — broad, powerful shoulders above a trim waist, with a smooth, muscular chest shorn of any hair. I'm afraid my breasts were pointy the whole time he was half naked. Based on where his eyes kept going, he didn't seem to mind.

When we were finished I offered him the use of my shower. He looked intrigued but declined, reminding me he had a class to get to just after noon and a long walk to get there. I suggested he come back at 10 PM, around the back way, down the ally, and knock on my backdoor. "I'll be up late," I told him. At first he looked confused, but my eyes told him what he needed to know.

"The back door?" he asked.

"Yes, if you don't mind. The neighbors, you know?"

He nodded his understanding. I held the garden hose while he washed his hands and arms, splashing his sweaty armpits and his chest with his wet hands.

"I'll get you a towel," I said, bolting for the house.

"No, don't bother," he called out behind me, but I was gone. I returned at a quick pace, towel in hand, my breasts wobbling like they had a mind of their own. "Thanks," he said.

He looked a bit stunned as he dried himself, stunned by my wobble and my thick nipples under my sweaty shirt, stunned by my invitation for him to visit me in the dark of night. He left with twenty dollars in his pocket and an odd smile on his face. It was the kind of smile I'd seen many times before.

—

There was a soft knock on my back door at one minute after 10PM. I smiled at my swimmer boy's promptness. I swung open the door and watched his face as he looked me over. A flush of excitement washed over me — the way I imagine it does for all women — when I saw the desire in his eyes. I was wearing my usual tight jeans, a cleaner pair than the ones I wear in the garden, and a nicely tailored button-up shirt in a gingham print, reminiscent of a 1950s housewife, but unbuttoned more than they would have done back in those days.

"Wow! You clean up nice!" I said, admiring my swimmer's navy-blue chinos and his rumpled white button-down-collar shirt. It was the first time I'd seen a boy his age with a tucked in shirt in I don't know how long. "Come on in. Do you have any place else to be tonight, or...?"

"No," he said, setting a small backpack down on my kitchen floor. "I was just at the library."

"Good. We can relax, then. Do you drink? I'm not allowed to give you much, but, maybe a beer or a glass of wine?"

"What are you having?"

"I can go either way. Wine?"

My swimmer nodded. I poured us each a glass of red. We clicked glasses. "Here's to a good job with that daylily plant," I said.

"Do you think it'll survive?"

"Oh, sure," I said, not telling him it had been moved at least a dozen times in the last couple of years. "Those are super hardy. It's tough to kill 'em. So what were you studying tonight?"

"Marketing. It's a harder class than I expected."

"Any cute girls at the library? What's you dorm friend majoring in?"

"English Lit. She'll be a teacher I guess. I saw one of her friends tonight."

We sipped our wine and smiled at each other. "I want you to promise me a few things," I said. "First of all, when you ask her out and you start dating, I want you to tell me, okay. And I want you to promise me you won't tell anyone about coming to see me. I'm friends with the athletic director's wife, and they might get the wrong idea if word got out about you coming here."

I watched the dark-haired swimmer's eyes. They showed the fear I'd hoped to see. I've never met the athletic director's nice looking wife, but telling my boys I know her seems to be a good way of assuring their discretion.

"Oh. Yeah. No, I wouldn't say anything."

"Good," I said. "I can tell you're a nice, honest man, so I'll be honest, too. I'd really like to take our wine to my bedroom and make love with you for a while. Is that anything you'd enjoy?"

"Yeah!"

"Were you hoping?" I said. "I hope you were hoping, because I was hoping."

My cute swimmer smiled shyly. "I was...hoping," he said.

I took his hand and led him up the stairs to my small bedroom. My little red cottage is in the Cape Cod style, two bedrooms upstairs with sloping ceilings, each room with just one window on the end wall, opposite the door. My window faces my elderly neighbor's house. I used to sleep in the other room, but when I started bringing boys into the house I realized the benefit of using the room facing Mrs. Jones. She's quite hard of hearing and wears hearing aids during the day. She goes to bed early and takes them out when she sleeps. I'm glad of it because my boys often draw noises out of me that my little room can't contain. I try my best to keep it down — it's a very quiet neighborhood — but freshman college boys have such energy!

Having said that, I'm really not all that worried about my neighbors. I've seen the neighbor women whispering about me, but they really shouldn't be gossiping if they can't control their own husbands. I'll say no more about that because otherwise good marriages are at stake. It's hard to tell the tone of their gossip from the way they act, but it's crossed my mind they may just be jealous. I'm the single woman who's free to date young single men, after all. And they've seen nothing more than me chatting with various boys in my garden. When I choose to have a boy visit me at night I'm always careful to have him use the back entrance, off the ally. It's not that I'm embarrassed about anything, it just seems like a good way to keep the gossip to a minimum.

Enough about that. There's a tall handsome young man in my bedroom, looking at me with curious, uncertain eyes.

"I love the way these pants look on you," I said, closing the gap between us. I put my hand on the lump at his crotch and felt the warm hardness, squeezing it gently. "Did you wear them just for me?"

I looked up at him with my sexiest bedroom eyes. He nodded and seemed to be at a loss for words.

"Do you seduce all the neighborhood women?" I asked, playing with the hard lump a little more forcefully.

"No!" he said, and I smiled.

"Would you like me to give you a blowjob? I want you to fuck me, too. You'll get hard again, right?"

"I...hope so," he said.

I smiled. "Really? You've been hoping to fuck me? When did you decide that?"

"The...first day, I guess," he said. "I thought about you, after."

"You thought about me? All we did was say hello. You were looking at my body, though, weren't you. Did you jerk off when you were thinking about me?"

My dark-haired swimmer boy nodded. My squeezing hand had worked his hard cock free of his underwear, the length of it making a nice long lump inside the leg of his chinos.

"Your cock's really hard," I said. "I really wanna suck it. Is that okay?"

A nod was his answer. His eyes looked excited when I squatted and looked up at him. My hands were busy unfastening and pulling down and then the cock I'd been dreaming about sprang upward, nearly slapping me on the chin.

"Wow!" I said. "You're bigger than I thought. You shave everything 'cause of swim team?"

My hand was stroking the length of him and the scent of his balls hit my nose when he nodded and whimpered an unintelligible answer.

He was having trouble making conversation due to the circumstances, but talking wasn't what I was interested in. My tongue played with his cock a little and then I let it fill my mouth. I moaned as I usually do. I love sucking cock, especially a freshman college boy's.

A boy's cock is different than a man's, silkier skin and a harder muscle inside. New leaves on the plants in my garden strike me the same way, so pristine and smooth and vigorous, so eager to unfurl and do their job. Maybe making chlorophyll from the sun and fucking a woman aren't as different as they seem to be — both are life giving processes that are truly magical.

The dark-haired swimmer boy's cock was a really nice one, right at that sweet spot in size, long enough to tickle me deep inside, but not so big that it hurts. I'll take a bigger cock with no complaints, but when I'm with a boy who's that just-right size like my swimmer, I can turn them loose and let them pound me hard if they want. In fact, I always insist on it.

My swimmer groaned when I took him all the way down my throat. He told me no one had ever done that to him before. I told him to ask the English Lit girl to do it, but not until they'd been together for a month or so. I explained how she could practice with a banana or a dildo. "Don't push her," I said, "just gentle encouragement. When she tries her new skill on you it'll make you feel even closer."

I could tell he felt pretty close to me when he came in my mouth. It was a powerful spray of hot cum, splashing against the back of my tongue and my closed-up throat. I sucked hard when he was most sensitive and he whimpered. My mouth wanted to smile but it was busy. Sucking and swallowing. Every drop.

I knew he'd look good naked and I wasn't wrong. Every inch of him smooth like a baby, over six feet of nicely muscled perfection. His cock was hard again in no time and I measured it. He smiled. I don't measure all my boys, just the bigger ones. It would probably make the smaller boys self conscious, so I don't subject them to such foolishness. My dark-haired swimmer boy was six and a half inches, maybe a little more. I let him take my clothes off and he buried every bit of it inside me. It felt amazing. So good. He was a little jerky with his movements so I had him slow down and smooth things out. Long strokes, all the way to the tip, I told him, and then make sure you bottom-out deep. That's the way I like it. Every bit of those inches, a big cock doing it's thing. When he smoothed out his movements he was a dream, his body moving like it was swimming through warm water, his face happily overwhelmed. He came inside me but I told him to keep going and he stayed hard. He looked surprised that it could be like that, so I told him when you're with someone who really turns you on you can just go and go and go. That's not strictly the truth, but my swimmer boy didn't know that and the good feelings just carried him on to the next level. I pushed him off of me and I mounted him, my warmed-up body sitting up like a cowgirl. His cock felt so good way up inside me. I put my hands on his smooth chest and squeezed my breasts between my arms. He'd already played with them a little when I was on my back, but the sight of them up above him, squeezed and big, with my thick nipples all riled up, it drew his happy hands and his happy mouth and he sucked on them like he'd never seen a real live tit before. The rising and falling I was doing on his big cock made my breasts move against his face and his hands. We were in that beautiful place when two bodies become one. That's when I came.