The Yard Boy and Madam

The Yard Boy and Madam

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


A callow youth is seduced by the lonely mistress of a French diplomat.


A callow youth is seduced by the lonely mistress of a French diplomat.


Submitted: November 05, 2012

A A A | A A A


Submitted: November 05, 2012



My first season at Ottawa Yard Care, one of my bi-weeklies was a woman who lived alone in a nice house on a half acre landscaped lot with an in-ground pool. It took me a few visits to figure out she was the only one living there. Divorced or something, I guessed. She spoke with a French accent, France French, not Quebecois. The first time I knocked on her door, I called her Madam and she never corrected me. She was young to have such a nice place but too old for me not to think of her as a grown-up. I was only eighteen, so anybody over thirty was still a grown-up to me. Thinking about her now, she probably wasn’t much older than that.

She was very attractive. On more than one occasion she spent some of the time I was there out by the pool; swimming sometimes but mostly stretched out on a lounger, reading novels, sipping icy drinks from tall glasses, wearing nothing but a string bikini with triangles of material that covered the front of her large breasts but not the sides. And she was nice. She always came out at some point to ask me if I would like something cold to drink. I’d say, “A glass of water would be great,” and she’d say, “Une bière froide is bettair,” and I’d say, “Thanks, but I can’t while I’m working.”  

One particularly hot, sunny day, she had a girlfriend over – another woman who looked well cared for. The two of them were in bikinis, lounging in the shade of an umbrella that sprouted out of one of the patio tables on the pool deck. I took a break when the grass was cut and the weeding done, and cooled off in the shade of a Norway maple at the rear of the lot. My back was against the trunk and my eyes were closed when someone called to me.

“Garçon? Young man?”

Madam called me Jake, pronouncing my name with that sexy French J sound, so I knew it was the girlfriend before I opened my eyes. The pool was surrounded by a soft, dark green English yew hedge that concealed a chain link fence, and the woman was standing at one of the gates in the hedge. I was a ways away, so I got up and walked over rather than yelling as she had. As I approached, Madam came through the patio doors carrying a tray of upside down glasses and a two liter bottle of wine. When I got to the gate the girlfriend, tall, thin, prominent hip bones and small breasts, opened the gate and stood aside. Clearly I was expected to enter. The friend didn’t say anything; just closed the gate and started walking. Clearly I was expected to follow. Passing the pool’s tiny diving board, the friend reached back and, without slowing her forward progress, straightened the line in her bikini bottom. Clearly I was expected to notice.

We walked to the table where Madam was seated and pouring the last of three glasses of cold sparkling wine. The friend sat far enough away from Madam that I had no choice but to sit between them.

Just because I was eighteen it doesn’t mean I didn’t know when a girl was coming on to me. But these were grown women, affluent French women, and I didn’t trust my instincts. I sipped the wine and endured what was either a grilling or an interview, I wasn’t sure which, conducted entirely by the friend. How old was I? Was I still in school? Did I like my job? As the bottle emptied – they were the ones empting it: I never finished my first glass – the questions became more pointed. Did I have a girlfriend? Did I know what a handsome boy I was? Did women often invite me to sit by their pool and drink wine? Would I like to cool off with a dip?

It made me uncomfortable. I think Madam and her friend thought the friend was teasing me, but it was starting to feel like I was being bullied. It reminded me of the way I’ve seen some guys treat some women sometimes. I don’t like it when I see it and I didn’t like these women doing it to me.

At the next pause in the conversation I stood up, told them I needed to get back to work and walked away. Behind me the women started speaking to each other in rapid fire French. The thing about French: spoken slowly, it is the most beautiful language of them all, but conversational French between native speakers can be as grating as any of the other codified series of mouth noises humans use to converse. The French being spoken behind me fell into the latter category.

I worked, saving the hedge around the pool for last, hoping Madam and her friend would go inside. Eventually they did and a short time later I heard the friend drive off. Once I finished raking and bagging the cuttings from the juniper bushes on the side of the house, I went around back and got to work on the yews. I’d only just started when I saw Madam watching me from an upstairs window. I was still pissed at the way she and her friend had fun at my expense so I decided to have some fun at hers. I put the hedge trimmer down, locked eyes with Madam, peeled off my tee shirt and put on a little show; using the shirt to dry the sweat off my naked torso, rolling my neck, rubbing my arms and shoulders as if my muscles were sore. When I was done I picked up the hedge trimmer and returned to work, my shirt on the ground where the trimmer had been. Working shirtless was a violation of company policy, but given the look on Madam’s face I wasn’t afraid she would complain.

An hour later the hedge was done. At some point Madam had left the window for parts and activities unknown. I put my shirt back on and got ready to be picked up; driving the riding mower out to the foot of the drive, gathering my tools and gas can and putting those beside the mower, bringing the bags of cuttings to the curb. As I was carrying the last two bags down the drive, Madam stepped out on her porch and called me over. She had put a long wrap skirt around her waist but she was still just wearing the bikini top from the waist up. I walked over and stood on the walk, looking up at her.

“Yes, ma’am?”

She said, “Did my friend offend you today?”

I thought about shrugging it off – “Not at all, ma’am. It’s just that I have a schedule I have to keep to.” – but the truth was I had a bit of a crush on her and I wanted her to know she had hurt my feelings.

“Yes, I was offended,” I said, my voice flat and cool.

She nodded and said, “It was not our intent, you know?”

“If you say so.”

She nodded again. “Oui,” she said. “I say so.”

We looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment; until an Ottawa Yard Care truck turned the corner, its flatbed trailer rattling, and it was time for me to go. As I walked away she said, “See you dans deux semaines.” She would see me in two weeks. I raised a hand, acknowledging her without turning around, and the vintage screen door, closed by a long spring rather than a pneumatic closer, banged shut behind me.

Two weeks later it was cool and cloudy. In addition to the usual grass cutting and weed pulling, deadheading the geraniums that lined the sides of the driveway was on my work order. Deadheading geraniums is time consuming work but it is work a child can do, so most clients do it themselves or get a neighbourhood kid to do it rather than pay the Ottawa Yard Care rate. But what the hell: I was getting paid by the hour so what did I care? I mowed the lawn, whipper-snippered, weeded the flower gardens, raked up the cuttings, swept the walks and driveway and broke for lunch. I hadn’t seen Madam and assumed she wasn’t home. She always kept her car in the garage with the door down, so I was never sure. I was just getting settled under the Norway maple when she called my name.

“Jake,” she called from the patio door. “Venez-là.” I didn’t need my high school French to know that I was being summoned. I put my baloney sandwich back in my lunch pail and walked the quarter acre to the yew hedge. As I came through the gate she said, “Entrer, entrer,” and disappeared inside. I did as she asked. There was an area rug on the floor just inside the sliding patio doors. The kitchen was empty, the counters messy from the preparation of a meal. I remained on the rug, awaiting instructions. She appeared a moment later, entering from a doorway that led neither in nor out of the house. She was wearing a simple housedress, shorter than what my mom wears but not immodest, and an apron. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a short ponytail and she wore no make-up.

“Remove your boots, s'il vous plait.”

Again, I did as I was told.

“Come,” she said. I took my first step into her home. Not my first step of the day: my first step ever. She disappeared from the doorway before my stocking foot landed on the ceramic kitchen tile. I walked to the doorway she had popped out of and back into and found myself looking into the dining room. The table was set for two, one at the head and one on the corner. On woven placemats sat wide, shallow bowls, filled with a creamy soup that smelled of seafood, and bread plates heavy with green olives and soft cheese and crusty slices of baguette. The napkins were thick linen, the glasses were thin crystal and the cutlery looked heavy. There was no wine, only ice water.

“Sit,” Madam said.

 “Are you inviting me to lunch?” I asked.

“What does it look like?”

I guess I’d had enough of her toying with me, because the feeling of intimidation I usually felt in her presence wasn’t present.

“It looks like lunch, madam. But I don’t feel invited. I feel ordered. When I feel this way, I lose my appetite.”

Her eyes brightened, catching the light more, and my first thought was how beautiful she was and then, when the brightness overflowed, I realized she was crying. I acted on instinct; stepping closer, putting one hand on her shoulder and taking her hand with the other. I didn’t tell her not to cry. I don’t know why people do that. I just kept my one hand on her shoulder and my other hand holding hers.

She did not weep. Her face did not grimace. She was breathing more deeply than is normal and tears coursed down her cheeks, but that was all. Shortly her breathing returned to normal. I dropped her hand and gave her the napkin from the place setting she had ordered me to sit at. She dried her eyes. When she was done she handed the napkin back to me and laughed a soft, dry laugh of no humour and I knew it was herself at whom she laughed.

She took both my hands in hers and said, “Jake, will you join me pour le déjeuner?” and I said I would. I pulled out the chair at the head of the table. She took off her apron, laid it over the back of her chair and sat.

The meal was delicious. She told me the soup was bouillabaisse with cream added to the traditional clear vegetable broth “to soften the flavour.” As we ate, she told me about herself.

“What do you think I am?” she asked me, dipping bread into her fish stew.

“A beautiful woman,” I said.

“Pah,” she said, dismissing the compliment. “We are not our looks. We are what we do.”

“So what is it you do?”

She thought about her response before answering. “I am the mistress of a diplomat stationed here.”

I wasn’t sure how I should respond and so I said “Mm-hm,” and nothing more.

“You are not shocked?” she wanted to know.

I focused on spreading Camembert on a slice of bread, unsure of my ground, and considered how I should respond. Finally I gave the most neutral response I could think of: “I have heard that it is not unusual in France for influential men to have mistresses.”

She said that this was the case.

“You seem to be alone,” I said.

“It is summer,” she explained. “My lover spends the summer with his family.”

“Do they live here?”

“No, no, no. They live in France.”

“So what do you do when he is gone?”

She grinned charmingly and said, “I torment the boy who cuts the grass, no?”

I laughed at that and said, “Yes.”

We fell silent then and focused on the meal. As we ate, our eyes frequently met and, I don’t know, I guess it just became realer and realer to me: this beautiful, sophisticated older woman wanted me to make love to her. It wasn’t a fantasy and it wasn’t my imagination. Was it?

By the time we finished the meal I was a nervous wreck. I knew by now that she would not make the first move: that she was waiting for me to start. Despite all her hints a part of me was still scared as hell that she would slap my face and run me off her property if I dared make a pass.

We sat, our plates empty. I had to say something, but the only thing I could think was that this wasn’t the time. Thank god, she took the initiative.

“You are to remove the dead blossoms from the geraniums, yes?”

“Yes,” I said. “We call it deadheading.”

“Ah,” she said. “Dead heading. I like this expression. Have you seen the flowers?”

I wasn’t sure what she meant. “Yes,” I shrugged. You couldn’t help but see them. What was she getting at?

“Have you looked close?”

“Uh, no, not really I guess.”

“Ah. I dead head them already. I have dead head them all summer.”

I was confused and it must have shown on my face, because she explained: “When I call your company and ask for you to dead head the geraniums, it was a ruse. You have this word, ruse?”

“A trick?”

“Oui. A trick. A good trick. Now you have all afternoon to spend with me.”

It was the unambiguous invitation I needed. I pushed back, rose from my chair, came around the corner of the table and extended my hand, palm up. She turned sideways in her chair and laid her fingers across mine the way a lady in a movie does to let a gentleman know he may kiss her hand. I closed my hand around hers and she rose and came into my arms; smaller in them than I had imagined, her head on my chest, her ear over my pounding heart. I held her tight, as tight as I could without hurting her. She tipped her head up and we kissed. As we kissed, our bodies knit themselves together.

Our weight shifted subtly, weaving our legs into whole cloth, her thigh pressed between my legs, my thigh pressed between hers. I relaxed my hold on her enough for my hands to move and caressed my way down to her bum.

Madam took her arms from around my shoulders. She found my waist and reached around to my ass. As my big hands kneaded her cheeks she pulled me tighter, grinding her herself against my thigh.

Still kissing, my hands still on her ass, I gathered the material of her housedress into my palms and lifted the hem to her waist. She broke our kiss, moaning, to concentrate on moving her hips in a way that would encourage my hands to greater boldness. With one hand I held the hem at her waist. With the other I stroked her butt through her panties: thin panties, thin enough that I could feel her heat. I slipped my hand under the waistband. Other than her hands and lips, it was my first feel of her bare flesh and I groaned as if I had been punched. I ran my hand down the cleft, pressing hard, spreading her cheeks. At the bottom I squeezed and a fingertip touched the wet, lowest edge of her cunt. One stroke and squeeze and no more: for now.

I let the hem fall and felt my way up her back, searching for buttons or a zipper. It was a zipper, a short one. I lowered it. She stepped back, out of my arms. For the first time I noticed she was barefoot. She crossed her arms and in one graceful motion pulled the housedress over her head.

She posed, reveling in showing herself to me. Her bra was as light and thin as her matching panties. Through them I could see the outlines of her dark fruits. I took off my tee shirt. I unbuckled my belt, undid the waist snap and lowered the zipper. She placed her right hand high on her chest, touching her collarbone above her left breast. As I removed my jeans and socks she slowly brought her hand down, until it was inside her bra and she was squeezing her big breast.

I stood before her, naked, my cock straight out. With her right hand still inside her left cup, she reached behind her back with the left and released the catch with practiced ease. She brushed the straps off her shoulders and the bra fell to the floor. I stepped close. She put her arms around my neck. I grabbed her by the backs of her thighs, just below her ass, and lifted her up until our faces were level with one another. Our eyes locked. I turned us and put her back to the dining room wall. She reached down between us and pulled the crotch of her panties to the side. My cock followed her scent and I felt her pussy lips kiss the head. I entered, slowly. Her eyes closed. She leaned her weight against the wall and grabbed her breasts. I began to thrust; deep, back, deeper, back. She squeezed her tits and pinched her nipples.

I slowed my rhythm. “Too soon,” I gasped.

Her eyes opened slightly. “No, mon cheri,” she whispered. “You are young and we have all afternoon.”

I continued to hold myself still, panting, trying to slow my breathing. She thrust her pelvis, forcing herself down my shaft. “Slower next time. Take me. Take me now.”

And I did. Her sheath was soft as satin and I was hard as hickory. I pounded her with all my strength and speed. "You," I kept saying. "You. you, you, you..." And when I came it was like going over a fall of water the temperature of skin and landing in her, a deep pool without stones.

© Copyright 2021 Janet G. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:












Other Content by Janet G

More Great Reading

Popular Tags