The Neighbours Son

Right. So. I sucked off our neighbour's son in the garden shed. Faculty party. My husband was... hang on, let me back up a bit.

You know the type of faculty party I mean? Those ones where everyone's pretending they're not counting the minutes till they can leave? Chancellor droning on about funding cuts, everyone nursing warm Pimm's that's like 90% fruit and 10% actual booze. Professor Atkins with those yellow teeth, talking about his bloody book again. You know he just changes the title and publishes the same bollocks every three years?

Anyway. It was hot. Like properly sweltering. That weird week last June when it hit 30 degrees and Cambridge collectively lost its shit. I was wearing this yellow sundress I'd bought in the sale - think it was meant for someone about ten years younger but fuck it. No knickers because... well, have you ever worn underwear in that heat? Like having your fanny in a sauna.

So I'm standing there, half-listening to the Dean's wife bang on about her bloody hydrangeas, when I spot him. Elliot. From next door. Used to mow our lawn when he was a teenager, all knobbly knees and trying not to stare at my tits when I brought him squash. Except he's not a teenager anymore. Twenty-three now. Rower. You know the type - shoulders like a barn door, that sort of easy confidence posh boys have. Looking at me like he's picturing what colour my pubes are.

Which is... look, I'm forty-five. Got a c-section scar and tits that have definitely seen perkier days. Had to switch to those industrial strength sports bras last year after I did a run and nearly blacked myself out. But I'm not dead yet. And seeing him looking at me like that... well. Been a while since anyone looked at me like that.

I caught him staring at my legs too. Kept glancing down at my stockings. I was wearing the sheer nude ones - barely visible really, just enough to make my legs look less blotchy in the heat. Cost a bloody fortune from that posh shop in town. The ones David likes. Always had a thing for stockings, that boy. Even when he was younger and cutting the grass, I caught him looking that time I was sitting on the garden bench with my legs crossed. Remember thinking I should probably cross them the other way, but I didn't. Bad me.

Should probably mention that I'd been having these absolutely filthy dreams about him since seeing him rowing on the Cam back in April. Even... Christ, this is embarrassing. Even wanked in the faculty toilet after. In my lunch break! Had my skirt up round my waist, copy of Jane Eyre pressed against my mouth to keep quiet. Came so hard I got a paper cut on my lip from the book. Had to tell people it was a cold sore for a week. My husband even bought me that expensive cream.

So he comes over, all confident like. Standing way too close. Could smell him - bit sweaty but in a good way, you know? That warm male smell that goes straight to your fanny if you're in the right mood. And I was definitely in the right mood.

'Mrs Harrison,' he says, glass of Pimm's in hand. 'Mum says you're the smartest person in Cambridge.'

Playing the mummy card. Knows I teach with his mum. Clever little shit.

'Call me Catherine,' I said, finishing my drink. Third one? Fifth? Who knows. 'Mrs Harrison makes me sound ancient.'

He smiled, looking me up and down in this really obvious way. 'Read your paper on Rossetti's feminine desire. Made me rather hot under the collar.'

Complete bollocks. Nobody reads that crap willingly. I don't even read it. My students definitely don't read it. I once left a twenty quid note halfway through to see if anyone would find it. Still in my desk drawer.

But as lies go, it was a good one. Right to the point. Because what he was really saying was: I know you write about sex, so let's have some.

'Speaking of repression,' he said, leaning in so his breath tickled my ear, 'bit stifling here. Might you show me that collection of first editions you mentioned?'

First editions? Subtle as a brick to the face.

'The rare ones,' he added, eyes twinkling. 'The ones you keep in your private collection.'

Should've told him to piss off. Should've said I was old enough to be his mum. Instead, I glanced over at David, who was deep in conversation with the Dean, his back to me. Found myself saying, 'The garden shed has some interesting... volumes.'

Volumes? Who says that? Apparently me when I'm half-cut and horny. Fucking volumes.

Had this moment of clarity walking over to the shed. Like, what am I doing? Got tenure two years ago, finally got the department to stop calling me "Miss" in meetings, and now I'm about to throw it all away for a quick shag with the neighbour's kid. Behind the massive rhododendron my husband won't shut up about. The one he spent £200 on and named "Maximilian" for some reason.

The shed's not much. Full of spiders and those weird soil bags David keeps for his herb garden. Smells of fertilizer and that mold that grows on garden furniture. Bit of a comedown after the manicured lawns of the main garden.

Got inside and he was on me before I could even pretend I was going to show him books. His tongue halfway down my throat, tasting of Pimm's and those posh mints his mum keeps in a bowl by the door. The ones that taste like someone dissolved an old lady's perfume in sugar.

Young blokes kiss like they're trying to win an Olympic medal for it. All enthusiasm and no technique. But God, it was nice. Having someone want you that much. Someone who doesn't know about your bad back or that you sometimes fart in your sleep.

'This is utterly mad,' I gasped, while feeling him up through his trousers like some hypocrite. 'My husband's twenty feet away discussing budget cuts.'

'Makes it better though, doesn't it?' His fingers found my... well, you know. Made this little sound of surprise. 'Professor Catherine Harrison, no knickers at a faculty garden party. What would your students think?'

They'd think I'd finally cracked. The Ice Queen who gave Simon Paxton a mental breakdown after she failed his dissertation getting fingered by the boy who used to mow her lawn.

'They'd never bloody believe it,' I laughed, then made this ridiculous noise when his fingers slid inside me. Like a hiccup and a moan had a baby.

His eyes kept dropping to my stockings. Ran his hand up my leg, feeling the nylon. 'Always wondered what these felt like,' he muttered. 'Used to think about your legs when I was a younger. The way you'd cross them on the patio when you were marking papers.'

Christ. He'd been perving on me even back then? Shouldn't have turned me on, but it did. Something properly filthy about it.

'Consider it field research,' he said, dropping to his knees on this ancient camping mat that's been in the shed since the millennium.

And he went down on me. Right there. With half the faculty five feet away discussing pension schemes. I could hear Professor Jenkins's laugh - you know, that honking one that sounds like a goose being strangled. While his son had his face between my legs.

Had to bite down on my hand to keep quiet myself. Got a weird bruise the next day. Had to wear this chunky bracelet to cover it in class. The one my sister-in-law gave me that I hate. Looks like something a reject Bond villain would wear.

He was good though. Surprisingly good. Like he'd been taking lessons or watching very educational porn. Most men his age think the clitoris is somewhere near the elbow. He tasted sweet too - found out later he drinks those green smoothies. Makes everything taste different apparently. Not that I've done a controlled study. My husband just tastes normal. Like... Tesco own-brand, if that makes sense. Nothing fancy but gets the job done.

When I started getting close, legs shaking, he stood up looking dead smug.

'My turn,' I said, trying to get down gracefully. Knees cracked so loud he actually looked concerned for a second. Sounded like someone stepping on bubble wrap.

Got his trousers open and... well. He was big. Unfairly big. The kind of big that should come with a warning label. Standing there proud as anything, this vein running up the side that looked like the Thames on a map.

'Jesus,' I muttered. 'What do they feed you boys at Cambridge?'

'Rugby and rowing,' he smirked. 'And thinking about my neighbour's legs in stockings.'

Cocky little shit. But I liked it. Too much.

Couldn't get my hand round it properly. This twenty-three year old with a cock like that? Where's the justice? My husband's perfectly adequate but this was like comparing a Ford Focus to a Ferrari. Not that size matters. But also, it definitely bloody matters.

Started making these noises though. Enthusiastic little sod. Too bloody loud. I panicked, thinking someone would hear. So I yanked off one of my stockings - ruined a perfectly good pair of Wolfords, might add, and nude ones are bloody expensive - and stuffed it in his mouth.

'Shut up,' I hissed. 'You'll get us caught.'

His eyes went wide, but fuck me if he didn't seem to love it. Moaned into the stocking, with even more enthusiasm. Could see him breathing in through the sheer fabric, probably getting off on the scent of it. Never had a bloke look at me like that - like I was his fucking religion or something. Kinky little bastard. Like mother like son, apparently. His mum once got absolutely plastered at a department party and told me his dad liked to be tied up with his own ties. Too much information after three glasses of cheap prosecco.

Stocking still dangling from his mouth until he pulled it out and wrapped it around his hand like some trophy. Looked like he'd just won the bloody lottery.

Only took about thirty seconds before he was warning me he was close. Didn't stop though. And he came all over my fucking Prada sunglasses that had fallen off my head onto the shed floor.

Six hundred quid, those glasses. David bought them for my birthday after I dropped a massive hint for weeks. Left the webpage open on his laptop, circled them in the magazine, basically everything short of a skywriter. And now they were covered in spunk. Like someone had sneezed vanilla yogurt all over them.

'Oh shit,' I giggled, bit hysterical if I'm honest. 'My bloody Prada sunglasses.'

Elliot looked horrified, then started laughing. 'Sorry about that. Not exactly in the warranty, is it?'

What would I even say? "Hello, Prada customer service? Yes, they're covered in semen. No, not mine. The neighbour's son. About the warranty..." Christ.

We sort of cleaned up. Well, I say cleaned up. I wiped my chin with some ancient tissue I found in my pocket that disintegrated immediately, and he tucked himself away looking like the cat that got the cream. Literally. And tucking the stocking into his pocket. 'Think I'll keep this as a souvenir.'

Cheeky shit. But something about him pocketing my stocking made me even wetter. The idea of him taking it home, doing God knows what with it. Would probably wank with it later. Christ.

I stumbled out, squinting in the sunshine, and walked straight into my husband. Actually bounced off his chest. He steadied me with this look on his face.

'Everything alright?' he asked, eyes narrowed. 'You look a bit... flushed.'

'Couldn't find the napkins,' I said, probably bright red and reeking of sex. Definitely had beard burn on my inner thighs. 'And lost my sunglasses.'

His eyes went to the shed, then back to me. 'Lost them, did you?'

Totally busted. Felt like that time my mum caught me smoking at fifteen. Same swooping stomach feeling.

Before I could think of something to say, Elliot came out with some napkins. 'Found these behind some plant pots.'

Cool as you like. Hair all messed up, lips swollen, but acting like butter wouldn't melt.

David's hand went tight on my waist. 'Perhaps you'd join us for dinner sometime, Elliot?'

What the actual fuck?

That night, David had his fingers in me while I told him everything. Every detail. Stopping whenever I tried to skip bits.

'In our garden shed,' he said, doing this twisty thing with his fingers that he knows drives me mental. 'While I was talking about grant allocations with the Dean.'

'Are you angry?' I asked, not sure if I wanted him to be or not.

'Furious,' he said, with the biggest hard-on I'd seen on him in years. Literally tenting his M&S pajama bottoms like a circus big top. 'So angry I might have to punish you. After you tell me exactly what his cock tasted like.'

Fifteen years married and turns out my husband gets off on hearing about me with other men. Could've bloody mentioned that before, couldn't he? All those times I was tiptoeing in late from department drinks, worried he'd smell someone else's aftershave on me, and he'd probably have loved it.

I told him everything, even the sunglasses bit. He laughed so hard he nearly went soft. 'On your Prada sunglasses? The ones I had to remortgage the house to afford?'

'All over them,' I said. 'Completely ruined.'

'Worth every penny,' he groaned. 'Next time, I want to watch. Or join in.'

I hesitated, then said, 'He took my stocking.'

David's cock actually twitched against my leg. 'What?'

'I used it to gag him. He was making too much noise. Then he kept it. Put it in his pocket.'

'Fuck,' David whispered, fingers moving faster inside me. 'Did he say why?'

'Said it was a souvenir.'

David came right then. Hadn't even touched him. Just shot all over my stomach from that image alone. Forty-eight years old and coming like a teenager. Men are so bloody predictable.

And that's how we ended up inviting the neighbours' twenty-three-year-old son to dinner with the intention of... well, not just pasta bake and tiramisu.