Before 01
I have written a lot lately about my sexual adventures following my retirement. This is the story of my younger years, before I was married. I married at the age of 31, after having decided it was time to settle down. But this was the late sixties and I turned 18 in 1969. Free love was in full swing and I was growing up in the full knowledge that things had changed and that "The Squares", my parents, would not appreciate the modern way of thinking.
I had always been aware of my sexuality, except I didn't know it to be such. As a child, I had only to give a pout and lower my eyes to get what I wanted. As I grew up, I became aware that this still worked, mostly on men and was very effective.
The girls at my school seemed to know all about sex and I listened intently to each opinion and theory. Of course, the majority of these were wrong, but that is part of growing up and the discovery of life. I left school and went to work in a London office for a construction company. I was to be employed in the typing pool and trained in shorthand and touch typing. The pool was ruled by the manager, a woman who appeared to us to be about sixty, but was likely in her mid-thirties. I say ruled because she was a complete dictator and quickly quashed any chatter between us girls. Contact with men was therefore minimal and limited to lunch breaks. At that time I was determined to get out of the typing pool and also to lose my virginity. By happy coincidence both were to be resolved together.
It is unthinkable now, that the venue for lunch was mostly the local pub. Drinking during working hours is very much frowned upon, but back in those days there seemed no harm in a 'swift one' at lunchtime. We also went there often after work and stayed an hour chatting and laughing, girls one side, men the other. It wasn't until a significant number of people had left that the two genders mixed. This was aided, no doubt, by the consumption of alcohol. I will always remember the evening I was introduced to Mr Farrow who was approaching retirement, but held a very senior position in the company.
Mr Farrow was a typical old school married man. He dressed in a suit which, whilst not shabby, didn't seem to fit correctly as years of drinking had given him a rotund figure. He was pleasant looking, still had most of his hair, which was only streaked with grey. The sign, together with the pot belly, of an easy life.
It was also acceptable, if not positively encouraged, for the young ladies to wear very short skirts and to show off their legs. We all did it, but I probably would have got the award for shortest skirt if measurements had been taken. This particular evening I had not noticed the passage of time and had been so wrapped up in the conversation that I found myself sitting at a table, ninety degrees to Mr Farrow. He asked what I did and I told him, but also told him I wasn't very happy and didn't like the atmosphere of the typing pool. He told me that a number of people had complained, but that management saw fit to leave the actual management to individual styles. Mr Farrow said that he only had a year to go before he retired. He also mentioned that he would need a new secretary as his present one had informed him that she was pregnant.
He intimated that he would be able to use his influence to get me out of the typing pool if I wanted, as long as I ensured that his last year was as stress free as possible. I decided it was time to bring my womanly skills to bear. As if to emphasise his meaning, he placed his hand on my bare leg, just above the knee. I smiled at him and gave him an assurance that he would retire a very happy man. All too soon it was time to leave and he offered to walk me to the station and we set off, back past the office. As we were passing, he remembered his umbrella and said he had better get it as rain was forecast for the following morning. I was happy to go with him up to his office.
The building was typical "Old London", built of Portland stone on the outside, and panelled oak inside covering a maze of carpeted corridors lined with doors bearing engraved name plates. We took the lift up to the 8th floor and walked down the long corridor that led to Mr Farrow's office. On entering, I saw for the first time how important he was. The door led to an ante-office where his secretary sat. The office wasn't large, but big enough, furnished with a desk, chair, filing cabinets and a large potted plant in the corner. There was a second door beside the secretary's desk which opened into a huge office. This was Mr Farrow's domain. He watched with pleasure as I surveyed both offices and then went to the window to survey London from on high. He came to stand beside me and pointed out some familiar landmarks. It really seemed like I could hit the big time.
As he turned away from the window, his overcoat knocked a sheaf of papers from the corner of the desk. They scattered and skimmed over the floor beyond. Without hesitation, I offered to pick them up and hurried over to where the largest chunk had landed. I knew that the best approach for preserving modesty would have been to crouch down facing away from Mr Farrow, but I really wanted to sit at that desk in the outer office. I bent at the hips and allowed my skirt to ride up over my young tight bottom. Mr Farrow said nothing, but when I glanced backwards I saw that he was looking directly at me admiring the view. I took my time picking up the papers before straightening up again. As I turned, one dropped from my grasp. He was still watching. I crouched facing him and allowed my legs to open, my skirt riding high, exposing the crotch of my knickers to him. I hoped that this would signal just how stress free I could make his final year.
In those days, despite my insistence on short skirts and tight, figure hugging tops, I still wore "sensible pants" as provided by my Mum. I am not sure now whether I was aware that skimpy lingerie existed, but I have no recollection of it mattering to me at this moment in time. I looked down as I collected the dropped paper and I could see quite clearly the inside of my thighs right up the leg openings of my underwear. A few wispy pubic hairs protruded beyond the elastic, it was the fashion then to sport a luxurious growth in the nether regions. I placed the papers on the desk and started to try and sort them into some kind of order. Mr Farrow quickly stepped forward saying he would do it. He was obviously flustered and said something about them being important papers. I hoped he was really flustered because of what he had just seen.
Instead of moving aside and letting him get on with the sorting, I stood my ground and I felt the movement of his arm against my right breast. My breasts were not large in those days, but they were large enough that he felt the soft fleshiness pressing against him.
'This is going to take a while; can I take your coat Mr Farrow?'
