How to begin?

An older lady. My daughter insisted I get a computer. My faithful ink and paper out of date.

She was right. It was nice getting her emails. She lives in Canada, I, in Birmingham, England. The speed of electronic messaging surprising. I was fearful I’d not be able to master the keyboard. Many were the hours spent flustering, mis-typing, using spell check but eventually I became reasonably adept. We send messages back and forth now sometimes daily. She seems not so far away.

The computer has become my friend and pastime. England is a cold country, especially here in the Midlands. My spare time now in front of the little screen. The “office” I like to call it. I have a desk, electric heater, telephone and blankets on the floor for the animals. It’s cozy.

My small house is sufficient, the dog and two cats great company. My husband John passed away. A lovely, lovely man.

My daughter introduced me to ICQ. Interesting, even though I couldn’t keep up with her typing speed in “real time” chat. I didn’t bother putting my details up as she’d warned I’d get a lot of ‘pervert” and unwanted calls.

Excuse, my writing is erratic.

How did I get to be typing this?

Writing an email to my daughter I hit the wall. Is that the expression? I knew a little about searching the net so went to ‘Google” typing the words “Writing” hoping to find help. It was totally accidental to find an erotic story place. My!

“Literotica.”

What an addictive place to be. Stories of all manner. Fascinating.

What appealed were the “Mature” stories. I’m going to attempt to write about that.

My husband was quite the business man. Away a lot. It was his suggestion I have a small business of my own. A good idea I thought. My interest had always been books. I’m a reader of anything well written.

(I’m amazed how poorly my grandson writes. My other grandchild writes beautifully. He speaks well, She does not. Different gifts I suppose.)

My little emporium was simple, without pretension so much so, that only one wall was shelved. All other books were lined out on trestles. My “space” if it could be called such, was behind a small drop-down counter. From there I was able to keep an eye on who was in the shop and yet remain relatively unseen.

Through flee markets, it was surprising the variety of cheap second hand books I was able to purchase. According to the relative content of my ‘finds” was the assessment of how much I would mark them up for profit.

Mechanics, Gardening and Cooking were the steady sellers.

It was an interesting way to earn a little income and pass the days. Monday to Friday in my shop, then the weekends wandering the markets buying books to sell.

My life was quiet, idyllic without pressure or financial worries and gave the opportunity to read many books.

I can’t recall the exact moment he arrived. A young man, I guessed ( correctly) seventeen. I’d registered him subconsciously coming in the shop occasionally, always between midday and 12. 30pm. Quite tall, sandy coloured hair and dirty white overalls. He’d wander in, hands in pockets, scuffing feet trying to look nondescript. I’d noticed him without real interest other than to ensure he wasn’t stealing my books.

As with all bookshops including mine, there was a section devoted to second hand adult magazines. The really erotic books that had become my taste and bought through anonymous post boxes, I didn’t dare offer for sale. The usual Playboy type issues and natural photography seemed his point of interest.

One thing I did notice were his glances when I smoked. This, you’ll remember was before the draconian laws banning the habit in public.

Here, I can tell you details regarding my looks. I wasn’t overly attractive, was heavy, had and always had weight control problems. I wasn’t ugly. Most regarded me as a larger lady with a nice smile, clean, polished nails ( important to me) violet eyes, and surprisingly for a heavy smoker, clean teeth. I saw my dentist every three months for scaling and cleaning.

He continued his visits. Never bought a thing. Just shuffled through. And as usual poked around the Adult mag’s. By now I’d realised his interest in me and my smoking.

A strange experience, quite enticing yet beyond my fathom. Exciting? A young boy fancied me?

Thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking.

The usual pornographic phrases would be easy to write, but the meeting with this young man wasn’t to follow the formulas I’ve read.

Then the day he sauntered over, hands in pockets, red faced and head down.

He stuttered about adult books. Did I have them behind the counter perhaps?

He had a noticeable tremble.

I had no idea as to the minute, but it seemed the time to light a cigarette, lock eye contact and look him up and down. I was amazed to be so brazen. A forty six year old women sexually interested in a teenager?

The talk of books was a front. A sham.

He knew there was chemistry between us, knew I was interested. Knew I’d watched him watching me, yet turned, and walked away without a word before I could answer.

How embarrassing. He was back the next day. Hands in pockets, no eye contact, but at least there. And like the Pimpernel, vanished yet again whilst I checked a customer through.

I didn’t see him for eleven days. I counted them. Every one.

The sinful within me wanted the boy.

Horny for a youngster. Shameful and delicious.

In bed I would masturbate imagining seducing him. In the shop I masturbated. There were times it was unbearable. I wanted him.

He appeared on the twelfth day. Not during lunch, at closing time. I’d locked the door, was fussing with my bags when he quietly coughed behind me, apologised for scaring the daylights out of me and smiled beautifully. Quite a shock. He was dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt, gone were the overalls. Handsome.

No words were needed, just privacy. I unlocked the door.

The rest? We did everything. At the time I had my period. He didn’t care, neither did I. It was a wonderful, marvelous, out of this world experience for both of us. He ejaculated the moment I touched him. I had not before seen this. Fascinated. The head was covered with pre-cum and shot all over me. He was embarrassed, I was delighted. Not in my wildest imagination had I thought pleasure from such excitement. I smoked and sucked him. We cuddled and kissed. We did things naturally. No pretence. My little back room was a haven that evening.

I remember his ability to stay hard. I remember embarrassment looking at his blood covered penis. I remember dashing away to wash my bloodied thighs. I remember his erection as I cleaned his penis with a damp towel. I remember his hardness as he watched me smoke. I remember how he came when I asked him to masturbate for me. I remember our unsuccessful ( and very funny) attempt as he tried to put a floppy, tired, penis in my bottom. ( I wore him out.) His five comes I thought miraculous. And all mine.

So long without interest in sex to have this happen?

We had many weeks together. His erections never ending.

The shop was closed so often I began trading at a loss. For me to give him sexual pleasure was gratifying to my soul, my womanly centre and probably a warped, loving motherly instinct.

He leaked profusely. Long trickles. What could be so erotic as to shut your business door, go to your teenage lover, sit, take off your panties, spread your wet lips, play with yourself, smoke, have him masturbate almost to the point of coming and then exchange my hand for his, and have him come in my mouth?

He was infatuated. So was I. His favourite and mine was thrilling. There has never been the feeling of such depravity before or since to have this boy beg to suck me as I smoked.

What I was not prepared for were his outbursts, impetuousness and cruel immaturity.

He would come in during lunch, and if the shop was empty, lock the door. He wanted sex. An eternal erection has it’s charms, but eventually wanes without intellect.

Our time together was joy. He showed me depravity I’d not known. I showed him tension, slow comes, anal pleasure ( prostate massage), degrees of exhibitionism masturbating for me. His sudden, unexpected visits, ( we called them quickies,) fingers in my pants, masturbating me in the shop.

What had begun as delight became uncontrollable. My periods were not a problem. I would take him always. Bottom, mouth, hand, whatever.

Excess killed desire. Without equal level discussion, mutual interest in issues I decided enough was enough.

And so the day. He was too aggressive. I was not interested. Maybe business, my low cycle time…. I don’t know. He didn’t take “No” well.

I’m a councillor now. Helping ladies in “older women, younger man” relationships.

I understand the fascination. The control. And loss of reality.

My boy lost control when I said “No.”

I cherish my depravity. I’m not ashamed at all. As said before, it was delicious.

The ” No” was his trigger. I should have known better.

My beating was severe.

Being aggressive is fine, more exciting is to realise the limits, play them to the extreme, tease, tempt and never hurt.

Remembered with love, pain and whatever.

No, I didn’t press charges. I left the shop, sold everything and moved away.

To Paul,

Bye.