He promised he would, so it was only fair.

When the chores were done and the kids were asleep, I went to bed. Tired and annoyed from the day, relieved to have a few moments to myself, I lay on my back, slowly lifted my nightgown from my knees to my waist, slipped both hands down the front of my favourite panties, and played with myself.

I always liked to watch him, and I closed my eyes and saw him there, his hard cock in his hand. The first time I'd seen him he was still in high school, and he could come quick as a wink, his firm hand rocketing up and down his shaft as he spurted all over the bed. Or the sand. Or the tissues. Or me.

For a while that was all I allowed. He wasn't touching me, and neither was I, at least not with company. I went home and stroked myself alone, in the dark, like I was just now.

After a while, though, I stopped being so shy, and it was a matter of trust between us that this was something neither of us would show anyone else, but that we could do together. I'd watch him slide over the strange skin of his cock, and I'd find the courage to touch my dampness. I'd see his eyes on me. It would be embarrassing, and exciting as well. In the end, I liked him to come first, so that I could finish with his eyes glued to my quickly moving hand, and I could orgasm staring at his lovely face.

Mostly, by the time I'd finished he was hard again, his young cock ready for another round. It was a big step the first time I leaned forward and took him in my own hand. He came for me then, his seed seeping over my fist, and I rubbed it back over him until he stopped me with a gasp.

Eventually, of course, we moved beyond that. I found better places for his cock than in his hand, or in mine. I climbed on him and took him inside me with a force the surprised both of us. That first time he barely lasted long enough for it to count, but then I sat there and showed him how slippery his semen was for my fingers to finish what we'd started.

Though we began to fuck on a regular basis, and both loved the intimacy and heat of intercourse, we never turned our backs on what was the first love for both of us.

I used to tell him about how I'd run home to masturbate after seeing him, and how I'd done it in the car not long after we first went out. I'd parked my father's Honda in a dark spot on the road, made sure the lights were out, hiked up my dress and gone for it, fingers flying until I shook with my climax. I drove home then, my panties soaked, went to bed and did it again.

He confessed to being a chronic wanker long before we met. He especially liked to come in his bed, spraying the sheets before falling asleep. He was stunned that his mother never said anything, as it must have been obvious. He wasn't anywhere near worried enough to stop though. He used to jerk off before a date sometimes too. He'd choose some clothes, climb in the shower, and before washing himself and making his body smell nice for me, he'd take his cock in his wet hand, and spray all over the shower wall. He said he came more quickly getting ready for a date with me than any other time.

As our degree of comfort with each other lifted, we'd engineer situations where one of us could watch the other. He'd caught me pressed hard against the washer in the basement, the corner of the machine vibrating against me, through my jeans. It wasn't actually working all that well until he walked in, but then I got right into it, spreading my legs around the jutting metal, grinding hard against it, and knowing how hard he was getting watching me. I came before he touched me, and then again after he threw me to the floor and filled me.

I walked in on him in bed one day. He had the sheet draped over himself, but I knew what he was doing. Every time I turned away he'd take another couple of strokes, until I turned to him, a wad of tissues in one hand and my drenched pussy in the other. He managed to come in both.