Big Jessie

"Good afternoon, Madam...." was as far as I got before;

"Ah... you must be the plumber."

"Yes, Ma'am," I answered.

"So... you're 'Big Jessie,' I take it?

"Errr... no, Ma'am. My name's Arthur," I said between gritted teeth, seething at the realisation that one of the lads must have told her to expect me and given the name that some of the older blokes called me.

In the building trade, there are times when 'macho' is everything and, because I tended to be polite and helpful, some of them decided that I was a bit 'iffy.' Therefore, the first time I'd ever tried to hoist a 6metre x 1metre roll of lead onto my shoulder – and failed – one of the men had called me a 'big Jessie' and, unfortunately, the name had stuck. It didn't matter that I'd only been 16 at the time, nor that I was now strong enough to carry such a roll up to a roof without even breaking sweat - that was still my nickname.

"You're very young... are you fully qualified?" she asked in an extremely haughty voice and I dared to examine her properly for the first time. I judged her to be middle-aged – but that doesn't mean much because, when you're twenty, anyone over thirty tends to be described that way. At the same time, she wasn't at all bad-looking: shoulder-length brown hair, what might be a fairly sensuous face if it hadn't been for the large glasses, and a very tidy figure. Those were my first impressions at the time. Nowadays I'd probably say she looked pretty fit, or even that she was a MILF.

"Not entirely, Ma'am... I'm in the final year of my apprenticeship," I said in answer to her question and then, as was company policy, I added, "If you're not happy with that and you'd prefer someone fully qualified, I can...."

"Don't be ridiculous!" she snapped, "I'm sure you're perfectly capable of fixing a dripping bath tap, aren't you?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And stop calling me 'Ma'am, please... my name's Mrs Cook... as I'm sure it tells you on your job sheet or whatever it is."

"Yes... sorry, Ma'am... I mean, Mrs...."

"Well... it's no use your standing on the doorstep, is it? My problem's upstairs... you'd better follow me. Oh... and make sure you wipe your boots on the doormat!"

I did better than that; I slipped my boots off before I followed her up the thick, cream-coloured stair carpet. To be honest, being just a couple of steps behind her meant that my eyes were directly in line with her backside – a very nice backside as it happened; not too large and it seemed surprisingly firm for a 'middle-aged woman' – and I really liked the way the loose-fitting skirt swished from side to side.

"It's in here!" she announced, opening one of several doors on the landing and walking in ahead of me. Considering the size of the house, it was a very small bathroom, and very narrow and I'd no sooner thought that than she said: "It's only small... but it's for guests."

Now that she was facing me, I could see that my initial impression had been correct; she was a good looking woman. I mean, I couldn't help noticing.

"I'd rather you paid more attention to the dripping tap and a little less to my appearance, young man!" she said but, even though I blushed enough to feel the heat on my face, there wasn't really any harshness in her tone.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am... Mrs Cook," I replied awkwardly, realising as I did so that I'd pronounced it 'Cuck,' and trying to forget that I'd recently read a lot of stories in which that word figured. It made her mouth twitch very slightly but, whether with irritation or amusement, I couldn't be sure.

"Right... I'll leave you to it," she declared, and started to squeeze past me, apparently unaware that her impressive chest brushed against mine as she did so. "You'll find the stopcock is in the vanity unit." And then she was gone.

I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to turn my attention to the task in hand.

She was perfectly right about the stoptap, but it was right at the back and almost on the floor, so I was kneeling down to turn it off when I had the feeling that I was being watched. I finished turning it and then looked around to find that she was standing in the doorway. I suddenly understood how she would have felt if she'd known I was watching her ass when we came up the stairs, because there was no doubt that she was doing exactly the same to me. The difference was that she wasn't the least bit bothered at being seen to do it.

"I have to nip out to the corner shop, Arthur," she said, "I'm out of milk and you'll probably want a cup of tea or something when you're finished. I won't be long. Okay?"

Something made me bite my tongue instead of saying that I didn't drink tea – only black coffee. I don't know what it was. And then she was gone.

The problem was about as simple as it gets. The washer in the cold tap needed replacing. Even for a non-tradesman it's a ten-minute job at most and I wondered why her husband hadn't done it himself. 'Ah, well,' I told myself, that's how the firm makes money.' The standard call-out fee was £75 (plus VAT, of course!) plus my time, which would be booked in as an hour because that was the minimum. The bosses wouldn't deal in anything less.

Naturally, I was finished very quickly. The tap was in perfect working order again and the tools – two wrenches and a flat screwdriver – were safely returned to the toolbag. I washed my hands and wondered what on earth I was supposed to do next.

I suppose I could have just left – but I didn't know whether to lock the front door or not; if I did, and she hadn't taken her keys, I'd be in trouble; if I didn't, and someone burgled the place, I'd be in even more trouble. 'Ah, well,' I thought, 'she'll be charged for the full hour anyway.'

The kitchen, I discovered was not only enormous, it was also equipped with virtually every device and gadget known to mankind. The couple who lived here were well off, that much was obvious, and next to it was a large dining room with a table that could seat eight; so it seemed likely they did a fair bit of entertaining.

It was all very different from my own tiny flat; one-bedroom, one small bathroom and a kitchen that, once I'd furnished it with the little Formica-topped table and two chairs that I'd bought second-hand, left barely enough room to use the sink and the microwave.

Ah, well; I was growing used to seeing how the 'other-half' lived.

The one thing I did see that caused a twinge of envy was the laptop that was open on the dining table. It was the Samsung model that I'd been licking my lips over every time I passed the shop window on my way home – the one that was way out of my price range. Mine was a refurbished, 5-year-old Acer that, though adequate, was no longer entirely reliable. And if the people in the flat next to mine ever decided to protect their Wi-Fi, it wouldn't be much use to me at all.

Normally, of course, if you're left alone in a customer's home, the rule is that you touch absolutely nothing. Instant dismissal is, quite rightly, the penalty for that – but I only intended having a look at it. In fact, I didn't even realise that I'd brushed the touchpad until the screen suddenly lit up and, quite truthfully, I almost shit myself!

I didn't have the foggiest idea what to do – it was a much newer version of Windows that was being used so I wasn't sure how to return it to 'sleep mode' and I certainly didn't want to mess with it in case I screwed it up completely.

In front of me, on the screen, was a 'word' document that Mrs Cook had clearly been working on when I'd arrived and, just as I'd resolved to leave it alone and beat a hasty retreat in the hope that it would return to sleep mode of its own accord before her return, the title of it caught my eye. It was called 'He Put a Smile between My Legs!'

You don't have to say anything – I know! I should have walked away from it. I had no right; no right whatsoever, to read it – any of it. But I was a normal, healthy 20-year-old – and the last 'action' I'd enjoyed had been a three-minute knee-trembler against the back wall of my local pub, the Cock & Bull nearly six weeks earlier. Actually, I'm exaggerating – the three minutes included the time it took to get the condom out of the packet and put it on. Plus, of course, it had been with Ruth – a young woman who seemed to be on a mission to work her way through every member of the local building trade as quickly as possible.

So the title hooked me. I read what was on the screen (I didn't dare scroll up or down in case it would be noticed), but you can take my word for it that I wanted to! It read something like this (I obviously can't remember it word for word!):

"After all the hints and the suggestions; the persuasion and the arguments, it came down to the point where my husband was practically begging me to fuck another man so he could enjoy hearing me tell him about it. I'd resisted the reality of it for nearly five years, trying to satisfy his strange longings by making up stories of adventures that I simply couldn't really imagine myself ever having.

"He'd shown me the websites where stories of people doing such things were available. There seemed to be thousands of them! He just didn't understand why I was so reluctant because, as far as he was concerned, it must be a perfectly normal thing to do if so many others were so keen on it.

"Eventually, worn down by his pushing, I was weak enough to suggest that I might, possibly, under the right circumstances and with the right person, be persuaded to indulge him if it really meant that much. And that, of course, set him off at full tilt. He wanted to meet someone through the Internet – but I vetoed that idea – there are clearly some very strange people on there. He suggested some of our friends and acquaintances – but I said no to that as well, because I couldn't stand the thought of facing them again afterwards. I did, on holiday, try flirting with some nice men, but nothing ever came of it and, when one did make a pass at me, I nearly freaked out.

"So it really wasn't working – until the day the car broke down and I had to call...."

There was more after that but as I said, I didn't dare scroll down. I did start reading it a second time but I hadn't got far when two things happened. Firstly, a large pendulum, wall-clock chimed the half-hour very loudly – which made me nearly jump out of my skin. And I hadn't even begun to recover from that shock when I suddenly felt a hand being placed gently on my shoulder and a female voice said: "So... what do you think of it?"

Oh ground, why do you remain closed when the opposite is most in need?

"D'you prefer tea or coffee?" she said, and I realised that she'd turned away and was heading to the kitchen. I turned, very slowly, praying that my no doubt purple face might settle down to mere redness before too long. But by that time she'd already shrugged her jacket off and was reaching into the cupboards for the tea caddy and saying; "Well... sit down, then. I think a nice pot of tea would be in order, and maybe some... let's see now... yes, Marie biscuits for dunking. Okay?"

I sat down and I didn't argue. I didn't like tea. I remembered reading one of Ian Fleming's James Bond books in which the hero said something like 'tea is mud... and is probably responsible for the downfall of the British Empire!'

At the same time, I found myself unable to tear my gaze away from her as she bustled around preparing our refreshments and bringing it to the table on a tray. She seemed much more relaxed than when I'd first arrived and that seemed to soften the appearance of her features as well as the tone of her voice. Her face was more attractive than I'd first realised; the dark, flashing eyes accentuated by the straight nose, full, red lips and almost square chin; and all of it framed by wavy, shoulder-length chestnut-coloured hair. I noted the fact that she was quite slim – her breasts were fulsome and attractive, her waist slender, and her hips generous; while her legs, though possibly a little short, were nicely shaped.

I sensed her awareness of my observation but she didn't seem bothered by it and, after she'd sat down opposite me and poured the tea, she gave an enigmatic smile as she said: "Well... what did you think of it? Was it worth reading?"

She had a way of looking so directly at me that it made me feel as if I was a specimen beneath her personal microscope and it made me a little bit uneasy. I mumbled a vague explanation of having only read a small section of it and then, inspired by comments I'd read on other people's writing on one of my favourite websites, said that it was 'very well written.'

"Thank you," she said with a slight inclination of her head, "You're a very polite young man, Arthur," and, for no reason that I could understand, I began to blush again. And then, just as I thought I'd got past the worst of it, she suddenly fixed me with a stare, saying:

"You've been examining me quite closely, Arthur. Do you like what you see?" And, as I hesitated, unsure of what I should say or whether I ought to deny the allegation, she added; "Do you find me attractive... or am I too old for that?" in a very teasing voice.

I was, to say the very least, flustered. I said 'no,' then 'yes,' then 'I mean..." as she arched her eyebrows mockingly until, at last, I took a very deep breath and managed to say: "Yes... you're a very attractive lady, Mrs Cook. And I certainly don't think you're old! I mean...."

"Ha! A gentleman and a liar!" she declared with a loud burst of laughter that did nothing at all to ease my discomfiture. "I'm at least fifteen years your senior... not quite old enough to be your mother, perhaps... but...."

"I wouldn't have thought so, Mrs Cook," I insisted, trying to assert myself and regain some semblance of composure, "...and I really do think you're attractive... very attractive!"

"And sexy?" she queried in a sultry voice. I didn't trust myself to speak, I just nodded, slightly at first, but then with quite a lot of enthusiasm. "I'm not entirely sure that you're being honest with me, Arthur," she purred, and then, "Would you mind standing up for me?"

I did as she asked, while she also stood and came round to my side of the table. She stepped close to me - very close - and, wimp that I was, I actually took a half-step back; but then, facing me, and using the power of her eyes to keep me frozen in place, she began to unfasten the buttons on her blouse.

I think the correct word is mesmerised! My mouth probably fell open and my gaze certainly became fixed on the slow, confident movements of her fingers as the silky blouse opened wider and wider to reveal the lacy pattern of a well-filled bra. As she shrugged the garment from her shoulders, I could feel my erection straining uncomfortably inside my underpants – old-fashioned Y-fronts that weren't all that good at allowing for expansion – but there wasn't anything I could do about it.

"Hmmm..." she murmured, "it looks like a 'ballcock' problem to me," and I realised, with some embarrassment, that she was examining my groin. There was a moment – only a very brief one, thank god – when I almost said 'You're trying to seduce me, Mrs Cook, aren't you?' in what would have been a very bad Dustin Hoffman impression, but then I saw her hand reach out and take hold of mine and, even as I registered how warm it felt, I heard her say: "It's okay... I'm sure I can help you to sort it out."

In a state that can only be described as shock, I allowed her to lead me out of the room and onto the staircase, hearing her say, "As I told you when you first arrived, Arthur... the problem's upstairs!" And, before I had the chance to think any more about it, I was once again watching the gentle sway of her hips as I began to follow her towards the upper floor.

So, what do you think would be going through the mind of a twenty-year-old male at a time like that? Would he, perhaps, be picturing her naked body sprawled on a bed? Would he be thinking about all the stories he'd read about young men being seduced by experienced, married women? Or maybe he'd be worried that they might be suddenly disturbed by a justifiably angry husband? Well, yes; it's true that all of those – and more – flitted through my mind but, they weren't the main one. Oh, no – the main one was an almost frantic concern about whether or not the Y-fronts were clean enough to be presentable!

Somehow, they never seemed to have that kind of thought in the stories I'd read – but every man is perfectly well aware that underpants which have been worn through the best part of a day of hard, physical labour – especially if they're soiled with 'skid marks' - can be a pretty disgusting sight; and so I prayed that they wouldn't prove an embarrassment.

There was a pinkish-coloured net-blind over the window; the kind that let's in plenty of light without allowing anyone outside to see in, the carpet was a deep, warm shag pile, and the bed was easily the largest I'd ever seen. It was the kind of luxury that I simply wasn't accustomed to and, if I'd had time, I'm sure I would have been intimidated. Time, however, was something that I simply wasn't given. Almost as soon as I stepped inside, she closed the door, took hold of both my hands and said: "does the rosy tint make me look better?"

"You look fabulous, Mrs Cook," I replied, and I was being perfectly honest – she really did look incredibly attractive and seductive.

"Under the circumstances, Arthur," she smiled as she released my hands and began to undo the buttons on my overalls, "I really think you'd better start calling me Emma!" And then; "Oh... I like the tee-shirt! I may have to call you out on that one!" and she laughed.

Damn it! I'd forgotten that I was wearing the one I'd been given as an 18th birthday present; the one with the slogan 'Save the trees – eat a beaver!' emblazoned across it. But I didn't really have much time to think about it because she stepped in really close, tilted her head up, and kissed me very lightly on the lips as she eased my overalls down over my arms until they slipped to the floor. The kiss quickly turned from being a light introduction into something far more demanding as we both eased our arms around one another and I felt the surprisingly firm flesh beneath my hands. Before long, we were embracing tightly and her tongue was exploring my mouth with an eagerness that came close to scaring me until, quite suddenly, she broke away, looked at me and gave a slow, enigmatic smile.

As I watched, she unfastened the skirt I'd so enjoyed watching sway when she walked, pulled down the small zip at the side of it, and let it fall to the floor. Not taking her eyes off mine, she reached behind her, unclipped her bra and cast it aside; allowing the large, round breasts to tumble free and give me my first sight of her clearly excited nipples. Still smiling, still holding my stare, she slowly eased her lacy pants down across her hips until they too found their way to the floor.

"You're overdressed, Arthur!" she told me, and it was just enough to bring me out of my trance-like state. Swiftly, I discarded my shirt, underpants and socks (taking care to ensure that the Y-fronts were hidden beneath the shirt – just in case!) and tried not to feel too uncomfortable as she examined my body the way that I'd appraised hers. Fortunately, it seemed that we both found what we were looking at to be very acceptable.

"You seem to keep yourself in good condition, Arthur," she said, quite breathily and then, very gently placing her hand around my by-now-throbbing hardness, added, "I guess this must be Jessie! It's certainly bigger than I'm used to!"

Still holding it, she slowly stepped back and drew us both towards the huge bed. Her breathing had become ragged and uneven and her voice was hoarse as she told me: "I don't need any foreplay from you Arthur... I just want you inside me. I want you to fuck me!"