The Princess
My name is Roger Cox, an active single man of 34, very fit, keen on sports, and even more keen on meeting interesting older ladies. My situation is a very pleasant one, in that I enjoy my job as a personal fitness trainer at the local Gym. I also enjoy my work as part-time warden of the 13th century church, in this picturesque English village where I live.
Both these appointments provide me with ample opportunity to meet some of the local older ladies, some of whom are very interesting indeed. To a few of these discreet female friends, I am also known, privately, as 'a very naughty boy'.
Perhaps I should explain that these particular ladies form a very select group that I refer to as my 'Ladies Circle'. When I visit the members of the circle, as I do, it is by invitation only, and with the utmost discretion that is required and expected of all parties involved.
Many years ago, there were two sisters living at the vicarage, named Elizabeth and Margaret Barton, who acquired the nickname 'The Princesses' when they were young. Their father was a Clergyman, who had chosen to name his daughters after the children of the King and Queen of England, hence the nickname.
The sisters grew up in the village, and eventually, they met and married local men, and moved away to live elsewhere. Margaret was widowed fairly young, so she decided to return to live in the village, soon after her husband had died, a few years ago.
I first met Margaret Barton when I was introduced to her at a church social gathering, and found her to be an elegant, stylish, and very attractive lady. I got to know her better as time went on, and I felt that a mutual attraction was developing between us, despite our age difference. Margaret eventually invited me to visit her at home, an invitation that I was very pleased to accept indeed.
Thus it was that I found myself standing outside her charming cottage at the appointed hour and rang the doorbell, in anticipation of seeing this mature lady alone for the first time.
"Mr Cox, how nice to see you again," said Margaret, on opening the door. "Please do come in." Then stepping aside as I entered, she added, "Go through to the lounge on the left," as she turned to close the door.
The lounge was bright, feminine and tastefully furnished, with a sofa and two comfortable looking armchairs, arranged in front of a wood burner stove, that stood in a large brick fireplace. The oak beams supporting the ceiling were very much in keeping with the character of this traditional old English cottage.
The impression I had gained, on first meeting the widow Margaret Barton, had been of an attractive, educated, and well-spoken woman in her mid fifties. She had brown hair, was of medium height, and well dressed, in clothing that enhanced her mature full-breasted figure. My first impression was confirmed again, as we stood in her lounge, and she asked if I would like some tea, which I accepted.
I was seated in an armchair when she returned from the kitchen, carrying a tray with the tea things, which she placed on a low table between us. Sipping my tea from a delicate china cup, we made small talk about nothing in particular, as she sat on the sofa opposite me.
Margaret looked really lovely, wearing a short dark coloured skirt and white blouse, that she filled out most pleasingly to my lecherous eye. Also, my mind had been somewhat distracted, by the amount of shapely leg that was revealed when her skirt rode up as she sat down.
