Flatmating

Please note. This is a story. I made it up. It's not a confession. Worrying about how the central character's relationship will develop might be fun, but that would then be your story. If the notion of infidelity offends you, now would be a time to stop reading.

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Saturday morning. I woke gradually, grateful that I could linger under the covers without the urgent cry of the alarm clock calling me to action. My husband, Sam, would not be back for another couple of days so I was not even being importuned to get up and make a cup of tea. Of course, the bed felt very empty without him, but I can't complain. His willingness to take on long distance haulage on a fairly regular basis has paid well over the last few years. Between that and my job in the school office we can afford a nice home, holidays abroad and other luxuries. We are comfortable and we are secure.

At last I pushed back the covers, got up and walked through to the bathroom for my shower. I've got used to walking around the house naked in the morning, while the curtains are still drawn, since my son, Steven, moved out about a year ago. Still, there is a part of me that listens for him moving and still I sometimes expect to hear him. I got into the shower and relaxed as the warm water tumbled on my shoulder length, brown hair and ran in soft rivulets down my skin; enjoyed the familiar routine of soaping my body and smoothly stroking it with my hands, running them through my hair as the water rinsed me down.

After towelling myself down I returned to our bedroom. Standing in front of the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door, I looked myself over. When I turned forty I decided I ought to at least try to keep in some kind of trim. For the last three years I have been reasonably successful. My stomach isn't, perhaps, as flat as it was twenty years ago, but I have kept the weight off pretty well. My breasts are still full and firmer than I expected them to be by this age and have dark brown aureoles. My hips look a little broader than they did and my thighs show some cellulite, but my skin, on the whole, is still smooth and a pleasingly tan colour that sets off my dark brown eyes. My arse.... well let's just say that sometimes I'm glad it's where I can't see it.

Sam used to compliment me on my arse, I thought as I swayed slightly, watching my movements in the mirror and smiling coquettishly at my reflection. Every night, it seemed in those days, he would wrap his arms around me and cup my breasts, pressing his bulge against my bottom. I would feel him harden in the warmth of my cleft and his hand would move to my groin. It happens so rarely these days - problem with him travelling so much. Among other things.

On a whim I lay down on our bed, my legs spread. One hand on my left tit, pinching my nipple, the other stroking my stomach softly, moaning softly I closed my eyes and conjured my current favourite fantasy involving a certain young PE teacher and the stationery cupboard at work. Imagining him kneeling in front of me, raising my skirt and pulling down my knickers, my hand strayed South to my crotch to massage my pubic mound, slipping a finger between my now-moistening folds as I pictured him bringing his tongue to bear on my mature married pussy.

My finger moving inside me now, I watched his thick, hard cock and my fingers wrapping around it, stroking it and running my thumb over its engorged crown as I listened to his short gasps. My breathing coming faster and waves of pleasure flowing from my pussy, I repositioned myself in my imagination, bending over the storage racks full of paper, pens and notebooks and with my legs astride as he stood behind me, gave my arse a playful slap and teased the head of his generous manhood along and between my lips before finding my opening and entering me. My hand moved faster and more urgently, running my fingertip over that specially sensitive place inside as the heel of my palm ground against my clitoris...faster...faster. In my mind his taut young arse was dimpling as he thrust deep inside me over and over....faster....faster. Sensations becoming more and more intense...my legs starting to tremble... biting my lip as I came closer to the edge...

Then my phone rang. "Fuck!"

I considered leaving it unanswered but a glance at the screen told me that it was Steven calling and my maternal worry circuits kicked in. Taking a few seconds to collect myself and to allow my breathing to return to normal I clicked the button to accept the call and said, "Hello, Darling. I thought you were in Croatia. This calls going to cost you a fortune."

"I'll be quick," he replied. "I need your help. Could you do something for me?" Steven has been able to wrap me around his little finger since he could barely talk, but he's smart enough to know that asking for a favour works better when I hear his voice, rather than sending a text."

"What kind of favour?" I asked.

"I forgot to give Zac my share of the rent before I came away and it's due on Monday and there's no way I can get it to him from here. Could you pay him and I'll pay you back when I get home?"

"No problem," I said. "Text me Zac's number and how much you owe him. And have a great time tonight. Bye love!" A few moments later my phone pinged and displayed a text showing Zac's phone number and '£250 x'. I had only met Zac once - a well-mannered young black guy was about all I recalled of the meeting. He had been Steven's flat mate for only a couple of months. Steven's previous flatmate, Colin, had moved out to live with his fiancée for the weeks before their wedding. It was Colin's stag party that had taken Steven and a few other mates to Croatia for the weekend.

I got up and crossed to the chest of drawers from which I plucked the first bra and pair of knickers that came to hand: both black silk. Call it foolish vanity in a woman of my age if you like, but I like a bra that pushes my breasts upward and together to produce a decent cleavage. And who doesn't like silk on their sensitive bits? Taking a quick peek through the curtains I decided that it looked like it would be a warm Summer day, so I selected a loose, low-cut scarlet dress of light cotton and left the tights in the drawer.

Once I had dressed I phoned Zac. It took a fair number of rings before he answered. 'Hi. Zac. Who's this?" he asked, his voice suggesting that he had just woken up.

"Hello. This is Kelly Field - Steven's Mum" I replied.

"Oh. Hi."

"Steven says the rent is due on Monday and he wants be to bring his share round," I reported briefly.

"Yeah. Sure. Give me an hour" Zac answered dopily.

He rang off and I went to my shoe cupboard. I have way too many shoes - most of which I never wear. I picked out a pair of black slingback high heels that I hadn't worn for years but which I thought would be cool and airy if the day turned out to be as hot as it promised. Putting them on, I picked up my phone again and called for a taxi to take me into the town centre. Then, sitting at the dressing table, I put on my make-up. At my age I don't venture out of the house without at least foundation, eye-shadow, blusher, mascara and lipstick. Fortunately years of practice mean that it takes just a few minutes and, by the time I heard the taxi driver sounding his horn outside, I was ready. I grabbed my handbag and headed out.

The taxi dropped me near the bank and I drew the required sum from the ATM before stuffing it into my purse. The day was even warmer even than I had expected and I found myself in a really good mood, as bubbly and carefree as I like to fancy I was in my teenage years. Even the pinching of my shoes couldn't spoil the day. Thinking I had twenty minutes or so to spare I popped into the department store across the street from the bank and tried on a couple of perfumes. One, a deep musky scent with overtones of pinewood, was one I particularly like and I decided that Sam was going to surprise me with it for my birthday.

I got in a taxi at the rank at the back of the shopping centre out to Steven's flat, which is in a slightly grubby area. All red and yellow brick with a patina of Victorian and pre-smog soot that had never been scoured away because this was a part of the city where tourists and wealthy homeseekers never came. I walked up the three-step path from the gate to the front door and pressed the button for Flat 3A on the buzzer system. Then I waited. And I waited a little longer. I pressed the button again. And I waited. At last I heard Zac's voice, "Yeah? This is Flat 3A. Who is it?"

"Zac?" I replied. "It's Mrs Field. I called earlier."

There was an almost inaudible "Shit!", then I heard the sound of the door lock opening and he said, "Come on up." I opened the door and went inside. My shoes becoming a little sore now, I climbed the four flights of stairs in the dingy greyness of the the stairwell until I came to a landing with two doors marked '3A' and '3B' . I knocked at the door of Steven's flat and waited. After a few moments I heard the sound of movement inside and of the Yale lock turning.

"Sorry," Zac said as he opened the door. "I got... distracted, then I kind of nodded off and went back to sleep," he said as he ran his hand over his closely cropped black hair. "Come in." He opened the door wide and I stepped into the flat. It's a fairly typical of the area - a couple of bedrooms, an open kitchen/lounge area and a bathroom. It's also fairly typical of flats occupied by young men: there were unwashed plates on the table and that low pungent odour of sweat and pizza.

"Sit down, I'll make you some tea." Zac said as he closed the door and gestured toward a coffee table and a settee. As I sat and watched him as he went to the kitchen area to put the kettle on I realised just how deeply black his skin was. The highlights shone almost blue instead of dark brown on his high cheekbones and forehead. He was wearing what he had evidently had to hand when I had rung the doorbell - a black t-shirt and loose grey sweat pants. The t-shirt was tight over his well-formed chest and muscular upper arms. Clearly he spent some time working the weights in the gym. What caught my eye, though, lay below his waist. Clearly he was wearing nothing beneath his pants because, every so often, the material would fold in such a way as to delineate a fair representation of what lay beneath and, from what I could see, it was pretty impressive.

Feeling my cheeks flushing a little I lurched into small-talk. "So, am I right in thinking that you didn't know Steven before you moved in here?"

"No," he replied as the kettle came to the boil and Zac poured boiling water onto teabags in two mugs. "It was a friend of Colin who knew that I was looking for a place. He told me Colin was moving out and put me in touch. Milk and sugar?"

"Just milk," I replied. He added a little to one of the mugs and as he walked over to the table carrying the tea I tried desperately not to keep my eyes from the way his bulge moved in his pants and failed. "Thank you," I said as he put the tea on the table in front of me and sat in a chair opposite me. I fancied that he was looking at my cleavage as he placed it down, admonishing myself, You're projecting - pull yourself together.

So we chatted for a while as we drank our tea. Zac talked about how he had trained as a joiner in London but hadn't been able to afford a place there and so had moved here; how he had stayed in digs and slept on friends' sofas until this flat had become available and about how he had got a job with a local building firm. I talked about my job at the school and about Sam driving across Europe; about the house seeming empty with both of them away. As we chatted my eyes kept drifting to his eyes, his shoulders and, yes, his crotch. Stop it Kelly, I'd find myself thinking, you're a married woman and you're old enough to be his Mum. But then again, there's no harm in looking.

When we had finished our tea Zac got up and, picking up the mugs, took them and put them beside the sink, then he returned and sat next to me on the settee. "So, you have some rent money for me?" he said, laying his arm along the back of the sofa.

"Yes," I said in a voice that I hoped did not betray the way my body was responding to his proximity. "Two hundred and fifty pounds, yes?" I lifted my handbag onto my knees, took the cash from my purse and handed it to him.

"He didn't need to send you round with this," Zac said as he took it from me, his eyes holding mine. "The landlord's pretty decent and I'd have paid my half". Then he smiled a warm smile and added, "But I'm glad he did. I've enjoyed your company. It must be so hard for your husband to get in that cab and leave you behind."

"He doesn't always show it," I said with a sigh as I got up to leave.

"Oh! Hang on!" Zac shot to his feet. "There's a couple of things I've found about the flat. I'm not sure if they're Steve's or Colin's. Can you give me a steer? Some of them are a bit...personal".

"Sure," I answered curiously. "What are they?"

"I've got them in my bedroom," he said, leading my to his bedroom door. "Don't worry, " he added with a laugh, "you're perfectly safe."

"Pity," I replied with a flirtatious giggle before entering his room.

"Give me a minute!" He hurried off. "There's something else." I looked around the room. It was a typical young man's room - socks on the floor, a mug on the bedside table, the wardrobe doors wide open. Zac and Steven were alike in that, I thought. On the bedside table Zac's laptop stood open and he had been browsing pictures. Idly I walked over to it and sat on the bed next to it.

I literally felt my eyes widening and my pulse accelerating as I looked at the images Zac had been browsing. The search field read "mature woman young guy" and they featured women of about my age having sex with young men and clearly having a whale of a time. One image had been enlarged and featured a woman of about forty, her head thrown back, her skin glistening and her mouth framing a perfect 'O' as she rode a young man of about twenty.I heard Zac returning and quickly turned away from the screen.

"Sorry, couldn't find it," he said as he came back into his bedroom.

"No problem," I replied as I got hurriedly to my feet. "AH!"

"What is it?"

"Cramp!" I said. Those damned shoes! "I've got cramp in my foot," I yelped as I fell back onto his bed, the arch of my right foot spasming and curling it into a horseshoe.

Zac chuckled. "Turn over and lie flat," he said. "I used to get that all the time and my Mum used to sort me out."

I turned face down on his bed and I felt him take my shoes off and heard the thumps as they landed on the floor. Then I felt his strong thumbs rubbing firmly but evenly and slowly along the arches of my feet. "The trick is symmetry," he said, his voice deep and husky. "It's about bringing them into alignment". I didn't really care about the theory and alignments. It felt good. I felt the strain easing out of my muscles as he massaged them to be replaced by a tingle and a warm glow. A soft sigh must have told him that his hands were working wonders.

"The problem often comes from the Achilles tendon and strain in the calves," he continued, his voice low and relaxing as I felt his hands glide up the back of my legs as far as the knee. His fingers worked my muscles, relaxed them and sent warm sensations up my legs to meet and mingle in my groin. Yes, I knew I shouldn't be letting him do this. Yes, I knew that I shouldn't be just lying there and enjoying this young black man's hands stimulate me like this. I couldn't deny, though, that they were stimulating me, that there were knots of excitement in my stomach and that my heart was beating faster as his hands approached the backs of my knees. I knew they marked a line and I found myself wondering what I would do if he crossed it.

I did nothing. Nothing other than let out as small gasp and open my legs a little as he began to stroke my thighs; the backs of them only at first, but then, softly the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs. At last, I found my voice, but all I could find to say was, "I...I...saw what you had on your computer."

"Uh-huh?" he said as his hands began to nudge the soft, light material of my skirt further and further up my thighs, revealing more and more of my legs.

Moaning softly I asked, "Do you...like...older women?"

"Mature women," he answered, his voice rich and deep. As his hands caressed my thighs and came ever closer to my arse and my crotch he kept speaking: "What's not to like? With a mature woman there's none of that angst you get with girls. You know your needs, you know your body, you know men's bodies and you know what you want. That's a real turn-on." By now he had completely uncovered my silk-sheathed arse and he added, "You appreciate being appreciated and you, Mrs. Field, have a wonderful bottom." With that he ran his hands over my too-ample buttocks and sent tremors of almost girlish excitement straight through to my crotch.

Abruptly he got off the bed and stood beside it. "Let's see if you can stand on that foot now," he said, offering me a hand. Sitting up I took it and stood up.

"Seems fine," I said. He put his arms around my waist and pulled me closely to him. I turned my face upward without a moment's thought of my husband or my son and opened my lips as his met mine. Our tongues rolled over each other and fenced with each other as I clung to his strong, muscular torso, stroking his back and his arms, slipping my hands beneath his t-shirt to find the soft sensitive skin of his flanks. At the same time his hands drifted South and cupped my buttocks, pulling my crotch hard against his and I felt his bulge against my lower body, creating a small cavern in the loose flesh of my abdomen. And I wanted him. I felt it like a small glowing furnace in my groin. I wanted him.

So my hands started sliding his t-shirt skyward, stroking his warm skin and rediscovering skills they hadn't used for way too long; seductive and sensuous skills that get forgotten when sex becomes unsurprising. At the same time I felt the shoulder straps of my dress being pushed off with a firmness and a gentleness I hadn't felt since I was a college girl embracing her first romance. My dress was gliding down my body and it fell in a heap on the floor around my ankles.

Kicking it off I slipped my hands under Zac's jogging pants and cupped the solid muscle of his arse as my wrists eased their waistband over his hips. Down over his firm thighs I pushed them until he kicked them down and off. I unhooked my bra and shucked it off because, from years of experience, I know that men can't do bras. I sat back on the bed and looked at his cock, now firm and erect, black and ridged with blood vessels. It wasn't huge - thank God! - but a good hand and a half and with a thickness that said 'heft' - the kind I've fantasised about when I've been alone in my bed and my fingers have drifted between my thighs.

"You like it?" Zac asked. By way of acknowledgement I wrapped my fingers around the base of his shaft and guided the tip toward my mouth. I had never been with a black guy before and was fascinated that the crown, as I drew back his foreskin, was the same dark chocolatey colour as the rest of him. I rolled my tongue around its now fully engorged head eliciting a gasp and a soft moan from the fit young man in front of me. Reaching round his slim hips I clutched his firm buttocks as I took his cock into my mouth and sucked on it.

I felt his strong hands stroking my hair and I took him a little deeper, his arse dimpling as his hips began to move in rhythm with the movements of my mouth on his throbbing member. There was a part of my brain that knew that this was wrong, that I was married and that the man whose hard veiny shaft was sliding back and forth between my lips was about as young as my son. That part of my brain, though was bypassed by the aching need in my groin that grew as Zac's gasps told me that I was making him feel really good.