I wanted to tell you about the most intense sexual experience I have ever had. Even though my behavior was appalling and reprehensible and I do feel guilty about what happened, it still makes me hard just thinking about it.
I was eighteen years old and studying at the University of East Anglia in Norwich. I was cycling home from my lectures one evening. It was early summer and still light outside. I hadn't been able to get a room in the Halls of Residence, so I was heading south, out of the city, towards the village where I shared a cottage with three other male students.
I was freewheeling down a short hill on a quiet road about a mile from home. Ahead, a huge black and silver Range Rover started to emerge from the driveway of a big house to my left. I caught a glimpse of a blond woman behind the wheel.
I was sure that she had seen me, but then her car lurched forward directly into my path.
It all happened so quickly, I jammed on my breaks, but I was too close, and I was going too fast. I rammed into the front wheel arch of her car, was catapulted over my handlebars, somersaulted across the bonnet, and ended up on my back on the road other side.
I just lay there for several seconds my heart pounding, trying to get over the shock and making sure that nothing was broken. Thankfully the rucksack that I was wearing, containing my books and regular cloths, had softened the blow when I landed on my back.
The next thing I knew was that a woman was kneeling beside me. "Oh god! I'm so sorry. Are you hurt?"
"I think I'm OK," I said eventually as I slowly sat up. I was young and fit, and I played rugby, so was used to taking a hard knock or two.
"This is going to ache tomorrow." I muttered as she helped me to my feet. I was starting to notice how pretty her face was. Her hands were soft and manicured and she smelled of expensive perfume.
"I'm so sorry, I just didn't see you." She explained. I could tell that she had one of those 'extra strong' mint sweets in her mouth. This seemed out of place somehow, but I quickly forgot about it.
My knee hurt but it wasn't too bad, I was more worried about my bike. I limped around to the other side of the car and picked it up. The handlebars were twisted to one side, no longer in alignment with the front wheel.
"Oh no, your cycle's all twisted!" she exclaimed. "Is it broken?"
"No, it looks worse than it is." I reassured her. It was just a cheap second-hand bicycle and It only took a few seconds to fix. I anchored the front wheel between my legs and twisted the handlebars back into alignment. "There, good as new."
I was happy to see that she looked quite impressed by my bicycle fixing skills. Then she looked down and saw my knee "Oh no, you're bleeding!"
I looked down as well. My knee was cut and there was a little stream of blood running down my shin. I was surprised that I hadn't noticed it until now. Still, it was just a graze. I must have somehow hit it when I flew over my handlebars.
"Please come into the house, I'll put a plaster on it," said the woman.
"You had better move your car first," I suggested. The Range Rover was still where, she had left it, sticking half-out into the road.
As she got back into her car, I finally got a good look at her. She was very attractive woman, petite, slim, blue eyes, her blond hair tied back in a cute ponytail. I reckoned that she was probably in her late twenties or early thirties. She looked like the kind of woman who she spent her days at the gym and the beautician.
She was wearing a matching jacket and short skirt that looked like it was designed by Chanel. Not flashy, well-fitting, and obviously very expensive. She was a very classy looking woman in her prime. Probably the 'trophy wife' of some rich business executive.
As she, rather clumsily, reversed her car back onto her driveway, I started to wonder how on earth she hadn't seen me when she pulled out? My over-protective parents had insisted that I had front and back lights on my bike and the same on my helmet. I knew that I had turned them all on before I started my journey. Also, I'm 6'4" tall and was dressed in fluorescent yellow cycling gear. How the hell hadn't she seen me?
She eventually parked up and guided me to her large and impressive Georgian style house. I left my bike and my rucksack propped up against one of the columns that flanked the front door and went inside.
I waited inside her very large designer kitchen, while she hurried upstairs to get a plaster for me. I took off my helmet; it looked OK, the lights on the front and back were still working and the video camera on top didn't look broken. I would have to view what it had recorded when I got home.
She returned with a medical kit and knelt in front of me. She dabbed at the wound with cotton wool and disinfectant to clean it. It stung, but I tried to act brave about it.
I rather enjoyed looking down at her. It was nice having a very pretty woman kneeling in an almost submissive position. She had a big platinum wedding ring on her finger, so she was married.
Standing above her, I could just see past her expensive pearl necklace and down the top of her blouse. I could see the top of her bra and make out the soft mounds of her breasts. Not too big and not too small, just about perfect.
She seemed like a nice person, and she was clearly very remorseful to have knocked me off my bike. It could have been a lot worse, but apart from a graze and a few bruises I was OK. I decided that I would 'chalk this one down to experience', I wouldn't bother getting the police involved or demanding compensation from her.
As she concentrated on tending to my injury, her pretty face was level with my crotch. I idly fantasized about how it would feel to have my penis in her hot mouth. Being eighteen it took almost nothing to get me hard and I felt my cock beginning to stir. Thankfully it was concealed under my padded cycling shorts. But I quickly looked away from her and tried to think of something else.
I looked around the kitchen and I could see that she had recently been preparing a meal; on the kitchen table there was an open recipe book and a chopping board with discarded onion skins on it. Then I noticed at several large empty bottles of tonic water and the empty bottle of gin on the table as well. I remembered her erratic driving and, thinking back, her speech that alternated between slightly slurred and too carefully pronounced.
I looked back down at her; she must have finished her mint and now I caught a waft of alcohol from her breath.
"Have you been drinking?" I asked.
She froze, looking up at me guiltily, now I knew for sure.
"You have haven't you! You're over the limit!" I was suddenly furious. "I can't believe this; you could have killed me! If I had been cycling down that hill a second earlier, I would have gone under that massive fucking tank that you drive! A second later and my head would have gone through the side window, and I'd have ended up in your lap!"
"I'm sorry, I didn't see you." Her slurred speech was more obvious now. As I had seen through her pretense, she stopped trying to act sober. She really was quite inebriated.
"You didn't see me because you were drunk and not paying attention!"
Her big blue eyes welled up with tears and her drunken sob story and feeble excuses simply flooded out of her: She had only got drunk that afternoon because she was upset; She had been making her husband a special anniversary dinner, but he had called her saying that he had to work late in London and was staying overnight at their apartment there. She worried that he was having an affair with his secretary. He spent all his time in London. She wanted to have a baby, but he didn't seem to want to make love to her anymore. She was only driving a short distance to the local supermarket to get another bottle of gin and thought she it would be OK.
I stood there listening as she overshared her life's woes, completely unmoved.
"You could have drunk something else." I said pointing at the large, well-stocked wine fridge the other side of the kitchen, "or you could have fucking walked to the supermarket, its only about half a mile. What the hell is wrong with you?"
