If you asked me why I did it, I couldn't give a reason. There was no one single element to what happened that I can point to now, many years later, and say, "Yes, that was why I did it." It was a hot summer, I was nineteen and had only just realised that when men looked at me they were often imagining what it would be like to see me without clothes on. A boyfriend I'd had at the time enlightened me by going on about how I should wear shorter skirts to show off my legs and bottom. He would rave over the size of my breasts, marvelling at how they seemed to defy gravity despite their weight.
"All my mates want to shag you," he'd gurgled, staring at me in a way that made my tummy flutter. "All the blokes at the pub, too."
He tugged his cock and begged me to go to the bed and sit on his dick, something I was only too happy to do since he had a big one and I was so fucking randy.
I climbed onto the bed and swung a leg over him, holding his cock upright with one hand.
"When I first saw you," he moaned, my cunt splitting as I sank onto the length of him, "I thought about this, Robyn." His hands came up to squeeze my tits while my hips started to move. "You're the sexiest girl I know. Probably the best looking in town."
"All the blokes at the pub?" I asked, leaning in so my nipples brushed his face.
"All of 'em," he grinned.
So I started to wear shorter skirts, just like he said. I also chose flimsier tops to match, sometimes going out without a bra. In the beginning I felt so self-conscious. At first it seemed like everyone was staring, and not just men. But, gradually, after a few days, that weirdness faded. It was just me being silly, I decided, I was just another girl on the high street, my heightened awareness merely my own response at the burgeoning exhibitionist inside me.
However, especially at the pub, I started to take notice of men as they looked at me. I surreptitiously observed the way they'd take a second look if they thought I wouldn't notice. Then I began to recognise the hunger in their expressions, the desire I saw sending a flood of heat between my legs.
Sometimes my knickers were soaked when I got home, my own libido growling.
The opportunities for some good sex were limited in those days: I lived with my mum and dad, and my boyfriend lived with his parents, our fucking being done when we were sure one of the houses was empty. In the early summer, as soon as it got warmer, we sometimes got out in the open air, with me supporting myself against a tree in the belt of woodland at the edge of town, knickers off, skirt pulled up while my boyfriend held my hips and gave it to me in his robust style.
Unfortunately it turned out he was also fucking the barmaid at the pub, and when I found out via one of his loud-mouthed friends who thought he would smooth in on me, that was that.
Then, one Saturday afternoon in early August, just as I was just closing the gate at the bottom of our drive, a car pulled up to the kerb behind me.
I turned when a man's voice said, "Whereabouts are you going, Robyn?"
"Just into town, Mister Jennings," I replied, leaning in to look at our neighbour smiling back at me.
"May I offer you a lift," he said, eyebrows arched, the smile fixed to his face. "It's absolutely no trouble," he added when I opened my mouth to politely decline.
It wasn't because I didn't like our neighbour or thought him pervy, nothing like that, merely an innate sense of not wanting to put him out.
"Well, are you sure you don't mind?" I asked, still hesitating.
"Not at all," Mister Jennings told me. "Come on, Robyn. Jump in."
And that's when I saw him glance at my boobs. I'd been bending forward, the neck of the sleeveless blouse gaping, braless tits right there for him to look at. I couldn't blame him for taking a sneaky peep, after all I'd practically dropped them in his face, but I saw something in the man's eyes that sent a tingle to my sensitive places.
I don't know why I deliberately slid onto the car's front seat in such a way my skirt ruched high on my thighs, and nor can I explain why I left the hemline where it was. But that's what I did, deliberately teasing a middle-aged man with my legs.
By then my body was thrumming and, despite Mister Jennings being nearly four decades older than me, I wondered what it might be like to have some fun with him – just a little flash of my thighs, perhaps another good look at my breasts when I eventually climbed out of the car. I could squirm around a little on the journey, really show him some leg, and when he dropped me off in town I could lean in low and thank him for being so kind.
That was my plan, a little thrill for Saturday. Some harmless fun. That was all.
But I never did make it into town to meet Kathy that day.
He took me to a pub, a nice place on the river. We sat at a rough wooden table outside, on bench seats shaded by a huge umbrella canopy while I sipped a red wine – the first drink I could think of so I could appear sophisticated in front of the much older man. Normally I'd swig a half pint of lager, but it didn't seem appropriate for some unfathomable reason.
It was pleasant out there, with the cottagey setting of the whitewashed building behind us, a willow's curtain of delicate fronds dangling in the river flowing past a few feet away. It gave me a sense we were well away from my everyday life. It seemed to me we were way out in the country, bucolic England surrounding us instead of us really being so close to the urban sprawl of a market town in middle England in the 80s.
Mister Jennings had a pint of ale to my ladylike glass.
He took a quarter inch off the top of his beer and looked at me. Then I saw him glance around, making sure there were no flapping ears nearby most probably.
"You know, Robyn," he said, a definite catch in his voice, "you've turned into a very attractive young lady.
I raised my eyebrows at him in false innocence. "Oh, well, thanks, Mister Jennings," I cooed.
He sipped more beer, his eyes on my face before, with his usual impeccable British diction, he said, "I haven't seen you with that young chap for a while."
"He's gone, Mister Jennings. I found out he was shag-- uhm, I mean sleeping with someone else."
Mister Jennings was appalled. "Good God!" he exploded, eyes wide with the horror of it.
I half expected him to call my erstwhile boyfriend a cad or a bounder.
"What a bloody fool!" he spluttered instead.
I shrugged to show it was of no real consequence. I'd been hurt and upset at the time, mortified he could poke that tubby old dollop with the same cock he put inside me, but by that afternoon I was more angry than wounded, but even that ire was fading. After all, he wouldn't be getting another go with me, would he?
