Grandma Irene was this old lady that lived next door to my family when I was a kid. She looked a little like the mom from Happy Days (to me anyway). I was never sure exactly how old she was. I didn't think asking was polite and nobody else knew. My parents had me do her yardwork and help out with other things on weekends. She always tried to pay me but I wasn't allowed to accept it. My dad said she barely got by as it was.
What my parents didn't know was that she wasn't quite the sweet little grandma they thought she was. Yeah, she was nice and she baked cookies and did other things and shared with us. But there was a whole lot to her personality nobody but I ever saw.
I was thirteen when I first started working weekends next door at her house. Originally my parents asked my older brother (he was seventeen) but he had a girlfriend and said all of his weekends belonged exclusively to her or something like that. So since I obviously had no friends and no social life (at least it seemed that was what my parents thought) I was told to do it. Unlike my brother, my pleas to needing weekend time for myself fell on deaf ears.

Summers in southern California can be brutal. All I had was a manual push mower, a rake and hedge clippers to do everything. I usually started out around ten o'clock and finished just before lunch time. Most of those weekends between June and September, it's over a hundred degrees by noon. Grandma Irene always invited me in and gave me a cool drink and let me sit in her living room to cool down. She had a huge evaporative cooler, what my parents referred to as a swamp cooler. And it felt great after two hours in the heat pushing around that mower.
Grandma Irene would usually shut her front door and sit down right beside me, smiling and looking at me like she was starved and I was a nice juicy porkchop.
"You look awfully hot, sweetheart," she cooed. "You should take off your shirt. You'll cool down faster."
I said I was fine.
"Nonsense," she clucked her tongue and reached over, grabbing the bottom of my shirt and tugging up. "Come on now, off. We can't have you catching a heat stroke."
So I raised my arms and she peeled off my shirt.
"My, so sweaty," she said, then reached over and ran a hand slowly up my flat stomach until she reached my chest. She pulled her hand back, her fingers glistened with my perspiration. "See??"
"Its really hot today." I told her.
She licked her hand expirimentally, then laughed lightly. "Salty."
I didn't know what to say to that, I just thought... wow, that was weird. She's old though, maybe she's a little senile.
She got comfy and leaned forward slightly, returning her hand to my chest, moving it in slow circles.
"What lovely muscles you have," she told me. "I bet the girls love your muscles."
I wasn't sure about that. I didn't feel particularly muscular. I just thought I was normal, but I didn't say that. I just took another drink of the lemonade she'd poured me when I'd first come inside.
She let her hand slide down to my stomach, then slowly rise back to my chest. She was biting her bottom lip a little now.
"Do you like girls, honey??"
"Yes, ma'am."
She laughed again. "I'll bet you do. Do they show you their breasts??"
I almost choked on a swallow of lemonade and had a coughing fit. She slapped my back.
"Um, no... not yet." I said, when I could breath once again.
"Aww, what a shame," she said, once again running her hand over my stomach and chest. "I know how hard it is for young men your age. Your horny all the time, aren't you??"
I told her that I wasn't sure we should be discussing that.
"Oh, peshaw," she waved a hand dismissively, and did her light carefree laugh. "We're just talking and Grandma Irene isn't a gossip. Anything we talk about stays right here. So you can tell me. ok, dear??"
I told her I guess so.
"Do you masturbate a lot??"
I felt a blush warming my face.
"Its perfectly normal for boys and even girls," she said. "No need to feel embarrassed."
I admitted I did. I wasn't sure I did it 'a lot' but yeah.
"What do you think about when your jacking off??" She asked me.
I shrugged and gave the lamest possible answer. "Just stuff."
"What kind of stuff," she asked, her hand had drifted down so far that her little finger was actually dipping inside of my jeans waistband now on every downstroke of her slow circles. "who do you think about fucking??"
"Girls I know." I said.
"Have you ever thought about your mom, or your sister??"
"Jeez no," I said, a little too defensively. She gave me a knowing look.
"Really??"
"Well , " I shrugged. "Maybe once or twice."
She nodded. "I thought so. Most boys do at some point. Which one do you find sexier?? Your mom or your sister??"
"Mom I guess."
"What's sexy about her to you??" She asked.
"Well, she's got really nice tits," I said. "And sometimes at night I can hear her and my dad having sex. She moans kind of loud."
"And you wish it was you making her moan like that instead of your dad, don't you??" She asked.
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Your cock is hard, sweetheart."
I looked down. I had a massive boner and I hadn't even known it.
"It's all right, " she told me. "Why don't you let it out?? It must feel awfully uncomfortable pent up in those tight jeans."
She reached down and unbuttoned, then unzipped my jeans and reached into the piss hole of my tighty whities and pulled my cock out.
"My, but you do have a gorgeous cock," she told me, her hand now fondling it. "And so nice and big for a boy your age."
"Thanks." I said, not sure what else to say.
"Would you like Grandma Irene to suck it??"
I told her I would.
"Just our secret, right??" She asked. "No bragging to friends. No writing it down in a journal."
I promised.
She smiled and leaned over onto my lap and gave me my first blowjob. It felt great. I blew my load into her mouth and she swallowed every drop, milking me afterward for all she could get.
When she was finished she sat back up and kissed my cheek. "Your such a sweet young man. I once had a son just like you. So handsome and gentle. It was just the two of us after his no account father left us. But we were happy, just him and I. Then the damned war happened and they called his number. I tried to tell them he was too tender hearted to be a soldier. But they wouldn't listen. He died over there in the jungle. They sent me home an empty box."
"Sorry." I said.
"Would it be a bother if I asked you to call me mom instead of grandma Irene when you were here," she asked. "Just in the house I mean. Not outside."
"Sure."
&qu ot;Sure what??" She asked.
"Sure mom," I said. She smiled brilliantly, leaned over and kissed me again. Just lip to lip. When she pulled away, she held my eyes for a moment and then leaned in again and this time she slipped her tongue into my mouth and we kissed for a long time. My cock was still semi-hard, lying against my unzipped jeans flap.
"Mama loves her little man so much." she breathed into my ear huskily when we finally broke the kiss. Her hand was on my cock again, stroking me hard.
"Think you've got one more in you??" She asked.
I was thirteen, I had a dozen more if she needed it.
She leaned down and sucked me off again. This time more passionately, she seemed hungrier, a little wilder. The whole time she made this "Mmmmm" sound.
After I came again, she told me I should probably go home now or my folks were apt to ask why I'd stayed inside so long. I thought she was probably right so I left.
The next weekend after yardwork, we were on the couch again and this time she asked me if Id ever seen a woman naked. I said I had, then she asked if Id only seen it in one of those smutty magazines. She took off her clothes and let me see her large, slightly sagging breasts with their pink nipples and her bright red bush. She sat naked beside me and opened her legs, exposing her pussy lips. I sucked on her breasts while she masturbated. She finished me off with another blowjob and I went home.
It became an every weekend thing through summer, and eventually we began having sex. She'd straddle me on the couch and ride me just as hard as any younger chick could have. She always wanted me to call her mom. She really got off on the roleplay.
I woke up one Saturday morning and my dad told me I didn't have to go do Grandma Irene's yard. I asked why not.
"She passed away sometime last night or early this morning," he said. "They came and wheeled her body out about an hour ago, under a white sheet."
I didn't believe him and thought he was a real grade-A prick for telling that lie. I went outside and stared at her house. It looked the same. She couldn't be dead. I went and knocked on the door. No answer. My mom and dad thought it was because I'd grown so found of my surrogate granny.
I internalized the hurt as anger and spent the next week being a complete dick toward the people I loved. My family attended the memorial service and that was that. A year later Irene's house was sold to a young Mexican family.
This all happened in the middle 80's. Its been thirty years since then but I haven't forgotten my first love instructor.