Your Secret is Safe with Me

My naughty fingertips playfully trace the outline of Jackson's shirtless body, from the sides of his neck down to his chest, and when retracing the pattern, I occasionally allow my sharp fingernails to dig into his bare skin. I am mindful to avoid touching his nipples.

At first, anyway.

"You have a beautiful body," I confess, "I mean, the part that I can see. It is so responsive, but I don't hold you accountable for your reaction," I add, however disingenuous that might sound, "even if you were to remove your trousers, just for a moment, here in a public park. My hands would just keep touching, below your belt -- obviously, and I wouldn't blame you -- I mean, how could I blame you, when you are so good looking and I, a normal woman, am subject to the normal passions that bind me?"

I tell first-time lads that it is a 'skin massage' -- something spontaneous after we initiate a friendship and decide to meet in a public park. I simply can't help myself. "You have to remove your shirt and place it over your eyes -- like a blindfold," I instruct, "and lie quietly on your back."

My experience is that lads this age cannot get enough of a woman's touch, and a few dates later they confess to me that, universally, they want more. Specifically, they want sex -- which is precisely what I don't offer them. This is the game. My clothes remain on, but their clothes start coming off.

Naturally, it is a process.

Lads are mesmerized by the sensation of touch from a woman over their shirtless bodies, helpless to fight off the pleasure of the 'torturous touching,' whilst simultaneously feeling compelled to provide a series of personal confessions, when asked. Shirtless and blindfolded, lads are little more than putty in my hands as I happily mold them into something else.

Something more submissive than what they already are.

Lads this age crave the approval of ladies like myself -- mature ladies with naturally attractive facial features and who take proper care of themselves. A lad's earliest fantasies are about his mother, and I serve as a sensual proxy for that preternatural affection. When I am out 'lad-hunting' I dress professionally but glam it up just a little: the blouse is tighter than one worn in a business office, the skirt is likewise snug, and the heels are a bit taller than normal. It is a smart look, one that turns male heads but not so fetishy as to elicit cat calls or derogatory commentary.

On first meetings I strive for a subdued visage of 'the governess look' -- one that feeds their active boyish imaginations: perfect make-up, restrictive clothing, and an air of sublime confidence. It is easy to identify inexperienced lads, lads who would obediently acquiesce to the word of a dominant older woman, and never have the temerity to initiate or even reciprocate any physical interaction. They make the best subjects for what I ultimately have in mind.

Even at an early stage of development lads will willingly take their clothes off for me. Even in a public setting. Even if I only suggest it.

Lads also tell me that I have a pretty voice. It is a British accent, which universally drives lads from Jackson's country positively mardy. When I spend time with such lads I speak deliberately, and with a more melodic tone than I do normally.

The first time I place my hand on their bodies, whilst addressing them, stops them dead in their tracks. Their breathing immediately changes rhythm, and their young bodies tense up.

This is my second meeting and first 'date' with Jackson; we gather in a remote corner of a park at the edge of the university. The rolling hills, plentiful shrubs, and trees provide us a bit of privacy. For this meeting I have notably toned down 'the governess look' for something more sporty -- having already piqued his sexual interest, I want to now position myself more as a surrogate for his sexuality rather than as a sex object myself.

It is a warm afternoon and I am sitting on a blanket with my back propped against a tree, my shoes removed, with Jackson's head resting on my lap. Jackson's arms lie at his sides, as if frozen. I know this park fairly well, frequenting the school as often as I do.

Meeting lads is remarkably easy; their pleasant manner and optimistic nature make them welcome companions. Jackson's shirtless body lies before me, and more than once my hands deviate from their prescribed course, but only for a moment.

"You must remain perfectly still," I repeat politely but firmly, along with my repeated admiration for his good looks.

Jackson is nineteen, a Home Stay student if ever I saw one, and definitely, is still a virgin. He possesses a thin, rail-like physique. My fingers stop halfway up his bare chest and playfully rest against his nipples; the sensation of a single fingertip on each nipple is enough to make him moan, but I quickly let the other fingers join them, and before he knew it, all ten are going to work rubbing, twisting, and caressing his hardening nipples.

The touching is quite gentle.

"I see that someone likes this," I whisper, to which Jackson could only reply with another moan of pleasure. My thumbs and index fingers held firm while the other three digits lightly tickled the surrounding skin, as he shivered and sighed. "Does that feel good?" I asked, "or should I stop and get back to the massage?"

I return to his non-erogenous zones, running my hands over his shoulders and down his arms then back again. I abruptly changed the subject, prattling on about the weather, and as if distracted, stopped entirely, then adjusted his shirt -- which serves as a makeshift blindfold, placed over his face.

"You are such a good-looking lad," I softly coo, "enough to make a grown woman lose her mind."

We continued in silence for a minute longer, gentle touches, and I now visually see his trousers start to tighten. I comment on his body -- his chest and shoulders, repeating again that he is so very good looking, then shift the discussion back to day-to-day subjects. Today's goal is not merely to arouse him, but rather to condition him to talk about what arouses him.

"Personally, I don't like being touched -- but you like being touched, and I like touching you."

A couple of curious onlookers pass our way, to which I silently smile and wave. What should be unusual about a shirtless boy relaxing in a park, his head resting in the lap of a woman almost twice his age?

I know for certain that by the second date I could get Jackson or any lad his age naked in a public place.

We then enter the psychological phase of the session, where I pose a series of leading questions, to explore his fantasies and start the process of gathering the lad's confessions. I run my fingers through Jackson's hair and his body starts to relax, then I return to his torso.

"Tell me the truth -- you like looking at grown women -- their legs, their faces, their breasts, don't you? Women older than yourself? This is normal for lads your age, and I can assure you that older women like looking at you -- I know that I do."

The touching is now less intense, something closer to a real massage. I invite him to unfasten his belt buckle, which he obliges.

"Tell me about a recent experience -- where you saw an attractive older woman. What did she look like? What was she wearing?"

Lads are usually timid at first, in the psychological phase, but as the conversation progresses and I attempt to make it seem natural, so does the candour of their responses, which by now are all quite predictable to me. They like mature women with pretty faces and large firm breasts, but who do not quite show enough of it. "If a woman like this invited you to her flat, of course you would go. And if she wanted to kiss you, you would kiss her, of course you would kiss her."

Their responses begin as partial assurances to me, somewhat obliquely, that they would welcome this from me. But when I redirect the question back with hypotheticals -- a generic attractive older woman, large firm breasts, and a welcoming smile, invariably I am met with unsolicited awkward admissions. "I would take off all my clothes for her, if she asked me to," or in Jackson's case, "there is this woman who lives down the block..."

Confession is good for the soul, so I now ask Jackson about the woman, to describe her, and what has he seen her wear. She almost always wears dresses or skirts -- and she regularly smiles his direction when he passes her flat. Only after constantly pressing him, to satisfy my womanly curiosity, does Jackson acknowledge that his neighbour has large breasts.

Firm breasts that jiggle seductively.

"Large breasts are nice on a woman, don't you think? And there is nothing wrong with a lad your age admiring a grown woman who has big breasts. I am certain that she LIKES you admiring her breasts, and from time to time you have probably seen her wearing sexy clothing -- maybe a tight top with a couple buttons unfastened?"

In a roundabout way -- and with a fair amount of coaxing from myself, Jackson confesses that he regularly masturbates for this mid-forties' woman, but that I must never tell anyone.

"Your secret is safe with me," I promise. My fingertips make their way back to his nipples, and in slow circular motions, I give the lad one last stimulation of unbroken touch until his breathing picks up and his back begins to arch. "I won't tell anyone how much you enjoy this either."

The massage ends and I remove Jackson's shirt from his face, placing it far out of his reach. He can see me again and I return to small talk. I hold his hand. School is going well, he misses his family back home, and so forth. Onlookers continue to wonder what we are up to, and now that Jackson is aware of their attention, he seems perturbed, but this is part of the conditioning.

"Close your eyes, love" I say in an exaggerated melodic tone, to which he complies, then I resume lightly dragging my nails over his chest. "I touch you, but you don't touch me -- do we have a deal?"

Jackson nods obediently. "And there's no reason for you to remove your trousers, love, although it is a warm sunny day."

I then tell him a tale about a girlfriend of mine who has a lad living next-door to her -- 'a neighbor lad just about your age' who sunbathes nude in his backyard in the early afternoons. "She's a married woman," I caution, "but it's definitely a temptation."

Jackson's breathing comes to a standstill. "You look nice with your shirt off," I repeat. "It's enough to make a grown woman lose her mind."

I rub one hand up and down his pant leg, mindful to avoid touching his growing bulge, but I tug at the unfastened belt buckle. "You have a beautiful body," I confess, "I mean, the part that I can see."

I know that I could get Jackson naked in a public park. Or any lad his age, for that matter.