Sylvia Seduces

Another from me, this time charting a young man's first time. Mature, voluptuous, sexy Sylvia seduces her friend's son. The pitfall being he's

her friend's son!

Please send feedeback about any part you enjoy, or any part you don't. There may be errors that remain - forgive me if there are.

Above all, I hope you enjoy.

GA - David, Panama 20th March 2012

The scene: Battersea, South London. 1980

The two girls, one blonde and thin, pretty in a doll-like way, the other, with deep black hair and richly voluptuous, grinned at each other nervously. Around them in the grubby flat were a sink full of dirty cups, a table decorated solely by an overflowing ashtray, wires and cables leading to camera equipment and lights, and four men.

The blonde wore the wedding dress while her friend was dressed as for attending the celebration of marriage in some capacity as a guest. Two of the men in the room were similarly attired, one as the groom, while the other wore a simple, dark suit.

Another man, older than the rest, with the mallet features of a boxer, expensively dressed, sucked on a cigar and eyed the two women.

He nodded appreciatively, speaking to the whip-thin man fiddling with a camera. "Should be good," Ray," he growled in a whiskey-lined voice. The cigar jabbed the point. "Two lookers this time, especially the dark one; shame the gown don't fit her." He nodded again. "But the blonde'll do for the bride, sure. She's pretty enough." His eyes flicked over the ripe figure of the dark girl again. He should have hired a bigger dress. "Never get those tits in the fuckin' one I got," he muttered.

"OK, ladies and gents," the photographer, Ray, called. Clapping his hands like a Hollywood director, he ordered: "Let's get you together. Smile now with the bride and groom holding hands. You're in love! That's it. The other two look on smiling, big grins. Your friends have just gotten married ..." The big lights flashed and the photo shoot began.

A few minutes later and both women were kneeling, their eyes staring into the lens of the camera while they smiled around the substantial erections for which the two young men had been hired. In the next pose the dark girl's mouth was crammed with the groom's girth while the blonde, reclining on a sofa, had her legs forcibly bent at the knees while the ardent wedding guest laved at her uptilted vulva.

She looked towards the photographer, eyes filled with shock at the situation she found herself in. This can't be true. I can't really be here ... doing this. Although it had been her idea to answer the advert in the paper: Models Wanted. A phone number supplied. "A hundred quid, Sylvie; just for prancing about with our tits out." And here they were, earning their hundred Great British pounds.

The man with the boxer's face, Stan, had been very persuasive with his sparkling eyes, battered, red-veined nose and his rough-diamond, cockney-geezer manner. "Tasteful, girls," he'd grinned. "Not your mucky shite from the Continent." He'd looked appalled at the mere thought. "You two beautiful ladies posing with a coupla 'andsome lads ... Lavverly."

"Porn, Val," the dark-haired girl had whispered. Valerie had seen the gleam in her friend's eyes. The mucky cow was actually excited by the prospect. "He wants us for a porn shoot," Sylvie had continued. "Fucking in front of people ... Fucking strangers ..."

And Sylvia had had her way, agreeing to model in a contrived wedding scene, with Valerie, as ever, going along with it.

Ray kept proceedings in order. The natural tendency of the two male models, as with all men Sylvia encountered, had been to gravitate towards the voluptuous girl, with her pouting bottom lip and feline eyes. As though they sensed her fecundity on an instinctive level, as though it was their duty under a primeval law to fill her with their seed, both young men vied for Sylvie's cunt. Ray had stared at the thick, dark triangle of the girl's pubic bush, muttering an obscenity when he too felt drawn to the scarlet slash of her bubbling sex through her splayed labia. Resisting the urge to abandon his cameras and lights, Ray directed his models in a series of lewd poses, ignoring the invitation offered between Sylvie's casually widespread legs.

"You," he pointed towards one of the men. "Sit over there; I want blondie sat on you. Hold it up for her so she can get on it. Face the camera," Ray barked when Valerie leaned face first over the man. "Legs wide. Let me see that cunt ..."

Sylvie grew frustrated at the endless interruptions and permutation of poses Ray demanded. "Will you just let me come?" she snarled. "Fucking these two in fits and starts isn't going to get me close to coming ..."

"You ain't 'ere 'cos you wanna feel good," Stan spoke from a corner and punctuated with the end of a perpetual cigar. 'You're 'ere to do wot Ray says. Now, be a good girl and lift yer tits up so's that nice young bloke there," he nodded and pointed with his cigar again. "So's that nice young bloke can dump 'is load on your big jugs."

Later, after Valerie had scuttled crab-like to the shower, with a hand cupped to catch the jizm seeping from her body, Ray invited Sylvia Taylor for a drink.

The nineteen year-old with goo spattered breasts grinned back at the man who would become her first husband.

Hitchin, Hertfordshire. Present day

He wrote her letters. Not love letters, he'd deny, just words on his feelings, words about how he felt when she was near, and how he felt when she wasn't close by. Delivery was a clandestine affair, dropped through the letter box at the pub where she worked.

"Just until I get a nest egg together," she'd say. "A little bar work and a bit of a flirt with the punters." A bit of innocent fun until there was enough money for a new start. The men in the pub, as usual for Sylvia Taylor even now, all flirted with her, eager to be the focus of her attention. With her precipitous cleavage artfully displayed she was the epitome of the jaded, seen-it-all-done-most-of-it barmaid. Sylvia Taylor pulled pints with aplomb, smiling and self-assured, hinting with her eyes and impressive frontage that she might, just

might

let you take her home and let you fuck her.

Ah to be engulfed in that wonderfully soft body! To kiss her mouth, taste the booze and the tobacco on her tongue, and to lick every inch of her from her shivering tits to the molten heat of her between her legs.

Skirts too short and her blouses too tight, the women would think, their eyes narrowing suspiciously, painted nails razor sharp as they watched their men act like buffoons. Skirts too short and blouses too tight, the men would nod and wink and grin.

Business as usual for Sylvia. Water off a duck's back. But there were the letters. Who was sending her those love notes?

"TIME, ladies and gents puh-leeze!" Howard the twenty-something bar manager called, rolling his eyes at Sylvia. "Your date's here," he smirked, jutting his chin towards the door. "You might as well get away, Sylvie," he added. "I'll close up."

Sylvia glanced at the boy waiting by the door. "Walks me here and back every night," she commented to Howard. "Lovely lad. Really nice."

"They're the ones to watch, Sylvie, love." Howard arched his plucked eyebrows and winked lasciviously. "Good-looking young man. I might have a crack at him myself."

"Don't you taint him with your poofter ways," Sylvia joked, narrowing her eyes at Howard. She picked up her bag, checked her phone, purse and cigarettes were inside and, with every male eye, heterosexual and straight, watching her, moved across to where the young man waited.

He grinned bashfully, shy as always. At her approach his eyes characteristically flicked down to his feet, as though he was embarrassed to look at her directly. The penny dropped for Sylvia.

They're the ones to watch ...

He was there every night to see her safely home, an accord they'd fallen into during the dark nights when Sylvia had first taken the job. His mother had insisted. It wouldn't be safe for Sylvia to walk back alone. Not at night, a woman on her own. And so she'd gracefully accepted his guardianship, a solid, youthful figure, her silent knight who protected her from the potential molesters lurking out in the wilds of Hitchin town centre.

He walked alongside her, uncommunicative as ever, yet there was no awkwardness between them; Sylvia was used to him; she'd known him all his life. As they walked, she thought, dwelled upon Howard's unintentionally prescient words. It had to be him, she decided.

At first, when the letters started dropping onto the doormat of the pub she'd suspected Howard of some practical joke. Then she recanted; Howard could be an absolute bitch but it just wasn't like him to be intentionally cruel, not to a friend. Following that she'd been mystified, reasoning that the clientele of the pub, the regulars, full of bullshit and bonhomie, would be likely, collectively, to misspell the headline of a red-topped tabloid. The composition of the letters would be beyond them.

It had to be him. There was just nobody else capable of putting the words together. There was nobody else, less the maligned Harold, with the sensitivity.

The question now was how to deal with it. His mother was her best friend; Sylvia was a guest in their house. The last thing she needed, or wished to impose upon the saintly Marion, Sylvia's provider of succour -- again -- was upheaval, a drama that could threaten a friendship of decades, not to mention leave her without a roof over her head.

And Sylvia had been in that position before when, at twenty-two, she found herself homeless and friendless in a carnivorous city. She'd had nowhere to go; Valerie was long gone, besotted with her footballer boyfriend, now somewhere in the Midlands -- Nottingham, Lincoln, Peterborough, or somewhere equally as parochial. All around her the intimidating crowd swarmed, with everyone intent on their own business; desperate prostitutes and their hotels by the hour, impatient commuters, and squaddies recalled to barracks due to some squabble in the South Atlantic. Nobody saw Sylvia, the wife, estranged, of a wife-beating, lecherous photographer who turned nasty on the scotch, bereft and alone on the main concourse of London's King's Cross station.

"Are you OK?"

Expecting a predatory male with shifty eyes and a leer, Sylvia was surprised when she looked up into the soft brown eyes and concerned expression of Marion, the woman who would be mother to Justin, who in turn, at age nineteen, would pen love notes to a Sylvia on the cusp of fifty.

Sylvia, unable to help herself, began to weep; whereupon Marion, with the sensitivity and soft heart she would pass on to her son, took the bereft young woman by the wrist and led her, unresisting, onto the train, to the town of Hitchin, a place Sylvia would return to time and again; and to the house where, eventually, Justin would grow besotted by the dark-haired gypsy woman, with her languid curves and feline eyes and graceful way of moving.

She thought of the differences between them, comparing her nineteen year-old self to Justin. The daring excursion to Battersea, meeting Ray-The-Bastard. How frustrated she'd been at the climax -- no pun -- of the photo shoot, her sex soaked with desire and clamouring for release. A quick drink with Ray in a seedy South London pub before she'd ridden his cock, really taken that pulsing length of gristle into her body, and come and come and come until she collapsed, panting and spent, against Ray's heaving chest. She doubted that the shy Justin had ever kissed a girl. Her big, generous heart warmed at the thought, and Sylvia found herself almost overwhelmed by a rush of affection for the lad.

A plan began to form in her mind. As the idea developed, blossomed from a nascent seed of thought into a bloom of purpose, her body, as it always did, reacted to the lewd possibilities before her. But, even as Justin's key snickered into the mortise set in the blue front door of home Sylvia realised there was just one snag to her plan. Quite a big snag.

During the walk back home from the pub, inside the silent Justin's head, thoughts and impressions and sensations whirled. The metronomic click-clacking of her heels aroused him for reasons he couldn't understand. The heels were part of her, the entirety that was Sylvia. He often imagined her almost naked, smiling at him with her suggestive eyes heavy-lidded, hands on broad hips as, wearing those impossibly stacked shoes and hold-up stockings, with, of course, with her glorious jugs spilling abundantly over the cups of her corset, she leaned towards him for a kiss. He liked Sylvia's style; she did it her way. Uncompromising. She was who she was. He watched her drink wine, the glass poised delicately in her fingers -- fingers he fantasised squeezing his erection -- while she laughed bawdily at some wit in the bar. He watched her smoke her cigarettes, a habit he found disgusting on anyone else, but when Sylvia drew on her cigarette she gave the whole action a sensual elegance that Justin found erotic.

"Come here and fuck me," he heard her say in his fevered imaginings as she reclined on the old-fashioned chaise in his mother's parlour, never living room, always described as the parlour by his bohemian, arty mother. In those waking dreams Sylvia lay there, elegant as a 50s film starlet, dressed in nought but those shoes, stockings and corset, a cigarette smouldering between her uplifted fingers. In his mind Sylvia smiled and purred and then, shockingly, casually opened her legs to him.

As they walked along the dusky, nondescript streets of middle-class England, Justin could smell her, her particular scent, and his body reacted with Pavlovian response, his erection hard and aching. Justin blushed guiltily at the memory of her underwear, stolen during a brief moment of madness from her bedroom, and into which he'd masturbated after sniffing the febrile garment upon which a trace of her perfume ... and that

other

scent, the womanly whiff of her, lingered on the cloth

He wondered how she'd taste on his tongue. He imagined her nipples, thick and long between his lips as he sucked on them; the taste of her tongue when she kissed, and the molten heat of her sex as he dabbed at her in carnal exploration. He even thought about dipping an expeditionary tongue into the dot of her puckered sphincter ...

Then Justin's reverie ended, they were home. He reached into his jeans pocket, wedged his hand down past his erection, and pulled out his keys. It was at that moment it happened. Unprecedented, less for a perfunctory mwah an inch from his cheek the day she'd most recently arrived to stay, Sylvia leaned her comfortable bosom against him and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you, Justin," he heard her murmur. His cock throbbed at the low, husky voice. "You're such a gent for walking me home like this every night."

A stammered, "No problem at all, Suh ... Sus ... Sylvia." He watched the woman's swaying derriere as she ascended.

*** Unusually for her Sylvia felt a tickle of apprehension in the pit of her stomach. This could go so wrong, but she had to ask, she couldn't ...

wouldn't

act unless without Marion's approbation. To do so would be disrespectful; deceit just wasn't Sylvia's style. Especially towards Marion. So she waited for a response. Having grasped the nettle, never one to shy away from difficulty however awkward it may be -- it would be much more awkward, and potentially catastrophic, when they were eventually,

inevitably

, discovered.

Marion, sitting across from Sylvia at the table in her self-styled parlour, regarded her friend with serious eyes. She sighed, pushed her fingers through her hair, fidgeted with the wine glass for a moment or two, and then, after a swig of rioja, opened her mouth to speak. "He wrote you letters?"

"Yes. Sweet, kind letters."

A shake of Marion's head. "He would. I can just imagine him doing something like that." Marion's eyes beseeched her friend. "And you're not offended?"

A snort from Sylvia. "Me? Offended? Come on Marion, you know me better than that. Do you mind if I ...?" She held up her cigarettes and then lit one after a dismissive,

it's of no consequence

, nod from Marion. "I was flattered, Marion. And the letters were ... well, they're so tender and sweet. All anonymous, I hadn't a clue until something Howard said made the connection click in my head." Sylvia squirmed in her seat; the moment had arrived to ask the question. "He's a virgin, Marion," Sylvia said. "And I think he needs a ... Could do with just a little nudge ..." She balked at the last moment.

But her inference was there between them now. Marion's eyes narrowed as she deciphered Sylvia's meaning. "You're saying ..." she began. "What I

think

you're saying is ..." Sylvia nodded. "You and Justin ...? You and Justin doing ... Making love?"

A whisper and downcast eyes. "Yes." The moment hung between them. The longer the silence drew out the more nervous Sylvia became. Eventually, after a strong draw at her cigarette, Sylvia blurted, "Yes, Marion, I fancy your son. He's a kind, beautiful boy who's too shy to get himself a girlfriend. I'd like nothing more than to seduce him. Take him by the hand and teach him, show him properly how to make love to a woman." She drew on her cigarette again. "But if it means a rift between us, then I'd never do it. You've shown me nothing but kindness all these years. You rescued me from God-know-what on King's Cross station. Helped me get over Ray; you've helped me in all the disasters I've had with men. So, out of respect, Marion, I wanted to discuss it with you. However distasteful you may find it." Traces of Sylvia's original accent, aitch-dropping Essex, slid through the cracks of her expensive, thanks to husband number two, veneered enunciation. "E's your son after all," she added finally. Suddenly running out of steam she glared truculently at her friend. She'd said her piece, was morally vindicated. Sylvia took one last vehement drag and, after standing and rummaging in the sideboard for a suitable ashtray, crushed the remains of her cigarette into it. Her heart pounded in her ribcage, her breath came in gasps.

"No need to go on so, Sylvie," Marion responded as a hint of a smirk danced at the corners of her mouth. "I think it's a superb idea. Just what Justin needs." She sipped delicately at the wine and grinned at her friend's slack face over the glass. "You just get on with it." Marion held up a hand, palm outwards like a policeman, her eyes closed, with her face three-quarters on as though in denial. "I don't want any details and I don't want him to know

I

know." She smiled. "You do what you do best, Sylvie. Just be gentle with him; with his heart especially."

And so Sylvia, with Marion's consent, set about seducing Justin. Her sex pulsed and trickled its desire while she laid her plan.

*** Justin was worried. A lump of concrete, solid and somehow greasy, lay heavily in the pit of his stomach. There was something wrong. He could sense something in the air, the same instinct that warns animals of an impending earthquake. Justin scented disaster.

"Just us tonight, Justin," Sylvia had said. And there was nothing overtly wrong in that statement; no sinister inference at all.

But something wasn't right. He knew it.

It was Saturday night, his mother was out and it was Sylvia's night off. There was the usual crap on television, and Justin had planned to stay in his room, with occasional forays to the parlour for his Sylvia fix, whereupon he thought of penning a fresh note.

And Sylvia looked even better than usual tonight. Her black hair, bobbed, shone; she was lightly made-up, unusual for a casual evening in, as was her choice of clothing. Sylvia had dressed as though for work, in her too short skirt and her too tight blouse. The blouse itself was something else, unbuttoned to an unprecedented third button. If Justin angled it just right he could look down into Sylvia's cleavage to a depth never plumbed before. Dizzying and delicious, and Justin's cock was thick and hard in his jeans at the sight.