The doorbell camera caught Mike Hall wiping his palms on his cargo shorts for the third time before he pressed the button. Eighteen years old. Graduated two weeks ago. Still hadn’t figured out what came next, but Mrs. Turner paid twenty bucks an hour for yard work, and that was twenty bucks more than sitting on his mom’s couch playing video games.

The door swung open.

Claire Turner stood in the frame wrapped in white silk. A robe. Short. Barely reaching mid-thigh. Her hair hung wet against her shoulders, darker than usual, water still beading on her collarbone. The smell hit him first, something expensive and floral that made him think of department stores and places he couldn’t afford.

“Oh sweetie, thank you so much for helping me today!”

She smiled. Big. Warm. The kind of smile his grandmother gave him when he showed up for Sunday dinner.

Mike’s eyes darted down before he could stop them. The robe gaped at the chest, revealing the swell of tanned skin, the shadow between her breasts. He snapped his gaze back up. Too fast. Obvious.

“Yeah, uh, no problem. Happy to help.” His voice cracked on the last word. Eighteen years old and still cracking like a kid going through puberty.

Claire stepped aside, gesturing him through. The silk shifted against her body. No bra. He could see that now. The outline of her nipples pressing against the fabric. He looked at the floor. The wall. Anywhere else.

“Come in, come in! It’s so hot out there. Can you believe this weather?”

Mike shuffled past her, catching another whiff of that lotion. His skin felt too tight. The hallway was cool, air conditioning humming somewhere deep in the house, but his face burned anyway.

“So, um, what do you need done today? Mowing? Trimming?” He shoved his hands in his pockets, pulled them out, crossed his arms, uncrossed them. Couldn’t figure out what to do with his body.

Claire tapped a manicured finger against her lips. French tips. Perfect ovals. Everything about her was perfect in that way that didn’t look quite real, like she’d stepped out of his Instagram feed.

“Actually, honey, I need help with the garden shed.” She started walking, and he followed because what else was he supposed to do? The robe swayed with her hips. Left, right, left. He tried not to watch. Failed.

“The shed?”

“Mhmm.” She led him through the kitchen, all white marble and stainless steel, out the sliding glass door into the backyard. The heat hit him like a wall. “Mr. Turner left it such a mess before his trip. All those tools just thrown everywhere. I need someone big and strong to reorganize everything for me.”

She turned back, eyes traveling down his body. Slow. Deliberate. He felt himself straighten up without meaning to.

“You’re getting so tall, sweetie. When did that happen?”

“Uh. I don’t know. Sophomore year, maybe?”

The shed stood at the back corner of the yard, weathered wood and a door that hung crooked on its hinges. Directly in front of it, maybe fifteen feet away, sat a cushioned lounger facing its direction. A small table beside it held a water bottle, a tube of sunscreen, and a pair of designer sunglasses.

Claire stopped at the shed, pulling the door open. Inside was chaos. Rakes and shovels jumbled together, bags of fertilizer stacked haphazardly, terra cotta pots in various states of cracked and whole. A mess, sure, but not exactly complicated.

“I need everything organized, baby. All the pots on the bottom shelf, tools hanging on the hooks, fertilizer bags stacked nice and neat in the corner.” She pointed with each instruction, her arm brushing his. He flinched. She didn’t seem to notice. “Can you do that for me?”

The way she asked. Like he was five years old and she wasn’t sure he could tie his own shoes.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

“Oh, you’re such a good boy.” She squeezed his shoulder. Her hand was warm, fingers pressing into the muscle, lingering there a beat too long. “Mr. Turner is away on business for the whole week. It’s so nice having a strong young man around to help.”

Mike didn’t know what to say to that, so he nodded.

“It’s just been so lonely here by myself.” She sighed, dramatic, her chest rising and falling. The robe shifted again. He caught a glimpse of more skin. Looked away. “Well! I’ll let you get to work. I’m going to change into something more comfortable and get some sun. This heat is just too much to waste inside.”

She walked away, hips swaying, robe fluttering. Mike stood at the entrance of the shed, watching her go. The sliding door opened, closed. She disappeared into the house.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Okay. Just work. Do the work.”

He stepped into the shed.

The space smelled like dirt and motor oil and something green, maybe fertilizer. He grabbed the first pot, a big terra cotta thing with a crack running down one side, and bent to place it on the bottom shelf. His shorts pulled tight across his thighs. He straightened, grabbed another pot, bent again.

This wasn’t hard. This was easy. Just moving stuff around.

He fell into a rhythm. Pot, shelf, pot, shelf. His mind wandered. He thought about the new Call of Duty releasing next month. Thought about whether his buddy Derek would want to hit up the lake this weekend. Thought about nothing in particular.

The sliding door opened again.

Mike looked up.

Claire Turner stepped onto the patio, and his brain short-circuited.

The robe was gone. In its place, a bikini. White. Tiny. Two triangles of fabric stretched across breasts that couldn’t possibly be real, not that round, not that full, not defying gravity like that. The cups dug into the flesh, creating that pushed-together cleavage he’d only seen in magazine ads. Her stomach was flat, tanned, with the faint outline of abs visible beneath smooth skin. The bottoms tied at each hip, thin strings that looked like they’d come undone with the slightest tug. They sat low, really low, exposing the sharp cut of her hip bones, the small valley leading down between her thighs.

She walked toward the lounger. Slow. Unhurried. Each step made her tits bounce slightly, the fabric straining to contain them. Her ass, when she turned to spread a towel on the chair, was round and firm, the bikini bottom riding up to expose the lower curves, the crease where ass met thigh.

Mike realized he’d been holding a pot in mid-air for probably thirty seconds. He set it down. Missed the shelf. It clattered to the ground.

Claire looked up, squinting against the sun. “Is something wrong, sweetie? You look confused.”

His mouth opened. Closed. He could feel blood rushing to his face. Other places too, and that made it worse.

“No. Nope. Nothing’s wrong. Just, uh, dropped this pot.”

She tilted her head, a small smile playing at her lips. Her hair had dried into blonde waves that fell across her shoulders, framing the swell of her breasts.

“Are you sure, honey? Your face is all red. You look overheated.”

“I’m fine. Totally fine.”

She shook her head, making a soft tutting sound. “You boys never take care of yourselves. Wait right there.”

She walked toward him. Directly toward him. Each step bringing those tits closer, the bounce hypnotic. He couldn’t look away. Tried. Couldn’t. She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell the lotion again, see the small mole on the inside of her left breast, count the individual droplets of sweat beginning to form on her chest.

She handed him a glass of water. He hadn’t even noticed she’d been carrying it.

“Drink this. You need to stay hydrated in this heat.”

“Thanks.” The word came out strangled.

He took the glass, his fingers brushing hers. She was looking up at him now, close enough that he could see the makeup on her face, perfect and precise, the false lashes that made her eyes look bigger, the glossy pink of her lips.

Her perfume hit him again. He felt dizzy.

“Such a good boy,” she murmured. “Working so hard for me.”

His cock twitched in his shorts.

What the hell?

He stepped back, almost tripping over a bag of fertilizer. Water sloshed over his hand.

“I should, um, get back to work.”

“Of course, honey.” She smiled again, that grandmother smile, like nothing weird was happening at all. “Don’t work too hard.”

She turned and walked back to the lounger. Lay down on it, face toward the sun, body stretched out like an offering. From this angle, he could see the underside of her tits, the way the fabric barely covered her nipples, the visible outline of them pressing against the thin material.

Mike drank the water in three gulps. His hand was shaking.

He turned back to the shed.

What the fuck was wrong with him? She was his neighbor. His mom’s friend. Older than his mom, probably. He’d known her since he was a kid. She’d given him juice boxes and let him swim in her pool.

He grabbed a rake, hung it on a hook. Grabbed a shovel, hung it next to the rake. His hands were still shaking.

It’s just a bikini. People wear bikinis. It’s summer. It’s hot. Normal. Totally normal.

He bent to grab a bag of fertilizer, and his cock pressed against the front of his shorts. Half-hard. Getting harder. He shifted, trying to adjust without touching himself, without being obvious.

Jesus Christ.

He picked up the bag, carried it to the corner, stacked it on top of another. Bent again. His shorts tightened. The pressure against his dick made his breath catch.

Stop it. Stop. Think about something else. Baseball. Math homework. That dead squirrel he saw on the road last week.

He risked a glance toward the lounger.

Claire had her eyes closed, face tilted toward the sun. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, making her tits shift inside the bikini. One hand rested on her stomach, fingers splayed across that tanned, taut skin.

Mike looked away so fast his neck cracked.

This was going to be a long afternoon.

The shed was half-organized. Mike had managed to get all the pots on the bottom shelf, the tools hanging in a crooked row on the wall. The fertilizer bags sat in the corner, stacked three high. His back ached from bending and lifting. Sweat ran down his spine, soaking the cotton of his t-shirt.

He stepped out of the shed to grab his water glass, empty now, and that’s when he heard it.

“Oh gosh, I always forget how hard this is to do yourself!”

Claire sat up on the lounger, a tube of sunscreen in her hands. She squeezed a white blob into her palm, then started rubbing it onto her left leg. Long strokes. Slow. Starting at the ankle and sliding up, over the curve of her calf, the bend of her knee, higher.

Mike stood frozen, water glass dangling from his fingers.

Her hands reached her thigh. She massaged the lotion into the skin, fingers pressing, kneading. The muscle shifted under her touch. She lifted her leg slightly, showing off the smooth underside, the tender skin behind her knee.

“Gotta make sure I get everywhere or I’ll burn!”

She switched to the other leg. Same treatment. Ankle to thigh, slow and thorough. Her bikini bottom pulled tight against her crotch as she shifted positions, creating a visible crease. A cameltoe. Mike knew what that was from the internet, from locker room talk, but he’d never seen one in real life, not this close, not this obvious.

He should go back in the shed. He should look away. He should do literally anything except stand here with his mouth hanging open like an idiot.

Claire moved on to her arms. One, then the other. The motion made her tits bounce gently, back and forth, a hypnotic sway that he couldn’t tear his eyes from.

Then she started on her chest.

Her hands, white with lotion, pressed against the tops of her breasts. She rubbed in small circles, working the sunscreen into the tanned skin above her bikini line. Her fingers dipped lower, sliding under the edge of the fabric, pulling it down slightly to get the coverage underneath.

Mike’s cock throbbed.

“There we go,” she murmured, mostly to herself. Then her head turned, and she caught him staring. “Oh! Are you okay, honey? You look hot. Your face is all red!”

He was going to die. Right here in this backyard. Heat stroke or embarrassment, one of the two.

“I’m fine. Just. Working.” The words came out choppy, broken.

Claire frowned, that concerned-mother look that made him feel about six years old. “You should take your shirt off like me. It’s so hot today, sweetie. You’ll overheat.”

“That’s okay. I’m okay.”

“Don’t be silly.” She sat up fully, sunscreen forgotten, giving him her full attention. Her tits shifted with the movement, barely contained by those tiny triangles of white. “Take it off. You’ll feel so much better.”

It wasn’t really a question. More like an instruction. The same tone his mom used when she told him to clean his room.

Mike hesitated. His shirt was soaked through, sticking to his chest, outlining whatever meager muscles he’d managed to build from high school soccer. Not impressive. Not like the guys in the gym with their protein shakes and bench press routines.

“I don’t, uh...”

“Come on, baby. Just take it off. I won’t bite.”

She smiled when she said it. Something in the smile he couldn’t quite read.

He grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

The air hit his damp skin, cooler than he expected. He stood there, shirt bunched in his hands, not sure what to do with it. Not sure what to do with himself. His chest was on display now, lean and defined but not bulky, a smattering of chest hair he’d been vaguely proud of since it started growing junior year.

Claire’s eyes moved down his body. Slow. Appraising.

“Oh my goodness.” She stood up, walked toward him. Her tits bounced with each step. “Look at you! You’re getting so big and strong!”

She stopped right in front of him. Too close. Her perfume wrapped around him, thick and sweet. She reached out and grabbed his bicep, squeezing.

“When did you get muscles like this?”

“I don’t, um, I played soccer. In high school.” His voice was doing that cracking thing again.

Her fingers kneaded his arm, tracing the line of the muscle. “Soccer! That’s so nice. You must have been so good.”

“I was okay. Bench warmer, mostly.”

She laughed like he’d said something genuinely funny. Her hand slid down his arm, over his elbow, down his forearm. The touch left a trail of heat on his skin.