George drove his cock into me, his belly rubbing against mine, one hand gripping my shoulder, the other clutching my breast. He's got a big cock, and he always made sure he filled me right to the hilt, with big long thrusts that made me grunt. My arms and legs were wrapped around him, and my eyes were screwed shut, trying to feel every moment of the experience. He came with a gasp, and flopped down next to me. I sighed and wriggled myself further into the mattress, enjoying the nice warm feeling inside me. Then he leant over me, kissed me on the lips, gave me a wink and said "G'night sweetheart", before rolling over and falling asleep within seconds.
In the friendly darkness of my bedroom I lay back and stared in the direction of the ceiling. We had a good marriage, I thought, coming up for 23 years, and I looked forward to my Saturday night cuddle and tumble, as George put it. And on Sunday I was going to play host to my daughter and her new boyfriend.
Sharon lived across town with a couple of mates, and she'd met this fellow while temping at the office where he worked. Steven his name was. I'd promised to lay on a nice Sunday lunch, and Sharon had threatened me on pain of death not to embarrass her: "No baby photos, no stupid questions. Okay?" Honestly, I'd only just turned 44, and she made me feel so old sometimes! I giggled to myself and wondered if I should tell Steven about the time that I threw my knickers on stage at a Bay City Rollers concert. After all, that wouldn't embarrass my daughter - not much!
I slaved away in the kitchen all Sunday morning, and when Sharon and Steven arrived I wasn't looking my best - red in the face, sweaty, ginger hair held back from my forehead with an Alice band, hands covered in flour. Naturally George was out weeding in the garden, so muggins here had to get the door. Sharon gave me a look that could kill, but Steven seemed quite unfazed by my bizarre appearance and gave me a peck on the cheek and a lovely bouquet of mixed carnations. I quickly washed off my hands, fluffed my hair down a bit, slammed the lamb into the oven and gave them both a glass of Asti before bolting upstairs to try and make myself look human.
When I returned to the lounge I looked - and felt - a lot better. I couldn't help noticing Sharon was piling on the weight. I've got a few extra pounds on my tummy, but generally I keep myself pretty trim. As we chatted I subtly took in Steven. I knew he was 23, four years older than Sharon. He was tall, slim, with neat dark hair, twinkling brown eyes, and a handsome, quite delicate face. I thought my daughter had done well for herself this time.
Lunch went well, and afterwards the other three sank into the three-piece suite while I started running water for the washing up, my hints to George about an automatic dishwasher having been ignored for another year. I'd just turned on a tape of some of my favourite music when there was a tap at the kitchen door and Steven appeared, and said, "Can I give you a hand, Mrs Webster?" I told him to call me Jill, and thanked him for the offer. He in return said I should call him Steve. As he started drying pots he cocked an ear at the music and said, "Oh, The Marriage of Figaro. I love this overture."
I looked at him in surprise, and asked if he was a classical music fan. He grinned shyly. "Well, I like classical pops, I suppose you'd call them. I couldn't listen to a four-hour concerto, but give me a mix of well known overtures, arias, that sort of thing, and you'll have me eating out of your hand." I'm much the same. I'd only really got into the classics about three years earlier. George isn't much of a music fan, and he sent me up something awful over my new fad, telling me I was getting ideas above my station.
Steve and I chatted happily away as we washed and wiped, my music providing a pleasant background. He was some sort of computer whiz kid, and although he didn't say it I got the impression he was earning a decent whack. At one point, as I passed him a plate, his fingertips laid over mine for second or so, and I felt a sort of electric buzz pass through my hand and up my arm. I didn't think anything of it at the time but that evening, sitting alone watching a TV soap, I did think abut it. I shook my head in dismissal - silly cow, I thought, you must be starting the menopause early.
Sharon and Steve came round a few more times in the following weeks, and I always got on well with him. One evening, when I thought we'd spent a pleasant evening chatting and laughing, Sharon cornered me in the kitchen and snapped, "Mother, for Christ's sake!" I stared at her, wondering what on earth I'd done. She continued, "You're totally monopolising Stevie. I would like the odd word with him now and then. And you keep flashing your boobs at him! God knows what Dad thinks." I was shocked: I thought I was behaving perfectly normally. As for my cleavage, I was wearing an ordinary, respectable open-neck blouse, and it's not my fault if I've got a big chest. After they left I casually asked George how he thought the evening had gone, and he just said he thought it was fine.
About a month after I first met Steve I was wandering round our local shopping mall, head in the clouds, when I heard his voice hail me. He told me, "I was supposed to be meeting Sharon today to do a bit of clothes shopping, but she just called me to say she's helping her flatmate run a jumble sale. I thought I might pop over later on but, while we're both here, can I buy you a coffee?" I thought that was a nice idea, and gladly agreed, on the condition that he let me pay. We compromised, and I bought us both a scone with jam and cream.
As Steve sat opposite me I couldn't help thinking how lucky Sharon was finding him. He really was a nice bloke, and in a blue denim jacket and black T-shirt he looked great - the words ruggedly handsome sprung to mind. If I was 20 years younger...I banished the thought the moment it arrived, and concentrated furiously on stirring my coffee. We chatted away, and suddenly a thought occurred to me. It was a bit of a cheek, but..."Steve...you know you said you like classical pops? Well, the BBC Concert Orchestra's playing here on Friday night, just a one-off, and that's exactly what their show's called. I, erm, it's silly I know but, I wondered if you might fancy going? I mean Sharon would be welcome to come too, obviously, but I've never been to a live classical concert, and there's no way George would take me. Sorry, you're probably doing something else..."
My companion was smiling before I'd even finished. "It sounds great Jill. I'd love to go. It's not really Sharon's thing, but she normally likes to just crash out on a Friday anyway, so I'm sure she wouldn't mind." We arranged that I'd get the tickets and Steve would pick me up and pay me back for his. I left the café with a real spring in my step. Just outside, Steve said, "Hang on a sec." He was standing very close to me, and reached out an index finger to my mouth. I felt it trace around one corner of my lips. "Sorry, you had a bit of stray cream." His eyes focused on mine, he gave me an amused smile as he sucked the finger. As we parted I felt my skin burning where he'd touched me, and I couldn't understand why. When I'd invited him to the concert I hadn't had anything in mind other than a pleasant evening of conversation and classics. I really hadn't.
I was excited all day that Friday. I finished work early and spent ages showering, making myself up just so and choosing my dress. I went for a black spangly knee-length one that I only wear on special occasions. The deep V at the front showed maybe a bit too much cleavage, but what the hell, I wanted to feel glamorous. When I was ready I checked myself in the bedroom mirror. Five-feet-five, shoulder-length curly dark red hair, pretty green eyes, just the right amount of eye-shadow, blusher and lippy, 36C boobs, tummy not showing too much, all wrapped up in the black dress, black tights and glossy high-heels. I nodded in satisfaction: not bad for an old bag. When George saw me he did a double-take, and said "Phwoooaaarrrr, sure you don't want to stay in tonight?"
I gave him a girlish giggle and chucked his chin. A few minutes later Steve turned up in his expensive-looking white Subaru. He looked fantastic, in a white suit with an open-necked black silk shirt, showing off just a curl of chest hair. When he saw me, he looked impressed too. "Wow Jill, veeerry nice. You'll be the belle of the ball." Then he gave George a cheeky grin. "Don't worry Mr W, I promise to have her home by midnight."
The concert was absolutely wonderful. The orchestra played some great music - pieces from Carmen, Handel's Water Music, Carmina Burana, Blue Danube...they closed the first half with the William Tell Overture. The music was so exhilarating, getting faster and faster towards the end, that the whole audience was jumping around to it. I got quite bound up in it. At some point Steve took my hand in his, and we stayed like that until the final crescendo, when we joined everyone else on our feet cheering and applauding wildly. As we sank back into our seats, flushed, Steve said, "Sorry about grabbing you like that, it's just such an exciting piece I get carried away." I hadn't minded at all; in fact I'd felt quite the same and rather enjoyed his hand squeezing mine in time to the galloping rhythm.
The second half was just as good, ending in the crashing guns and bells of the 1812 Overture, complete with mini indoor cannons. As we made our slow way out of the concert hall, Steve asked me if I fancied a quick drink. I glanced at my watch. "Well, I really should be getting back...oh, why not? Yes, I'd love one, thanks." He led me away from the main throng of concert goers to a lively bar a couple of streets away. To actually have a conversation without screaming over the noise we had to tuck ourselves side by side into a little alcove, our thighs pressed together. Steve, as he was driving, had only a half pint of shandy, while I allowed myself a couple of G and Ts. We also shared a bag of crisps.
I hadn't enjoyed myself so much in ages, and laughed gaily as we talked about the show. Both looking at each other's faces, we didn't notice the crisp bag was empty until our greasy fingers came into contact in it. We both laughed, then suddenly something changed between us, just like that. Steve stopped laughing and looked intently into my face. I thought for a moment he was going to kiss me. His fingers continued to rest on mine on the table. Neither of us moved for fully five seconds - I'm not sure I even breathed. Then Steve eyes dropped away from mine and, in a husky voice, he said, "I suppose we'd better go." I knocked back the dregs of my drink and squeezed out from behind the table. My knees felt weak, but I knew it wasn't from the alcohol.
He bar was even more crowded than when we arrived, and Steve took my hand to lead me to the exit. When we got out into the cool night air he continued to hold it. We walked in silence in the direction of his car, the atmosphere around us crackling with tension. I felt a tiny stab of disappointment as Steve released my hand, but a moment later he rested it on the small of my back. Wordlessly, he steered me into a long, dark, narrow alley which I assumed was a shortcut to the car. He stopped part way, and rested his hands either side of me, on the brick wall of a building. I could barely see his face in the darkness, but I knew what was about to happen. I could have stopped it, right there; but I wanted what was coming as much as he did.
