The letter was typed and quite formal. A professional lady liked my letter and wanted to meet me (no mention of the over-excited photo). By a very happy and quirky coincidence she lived on the outskirts of the very same London suburb as my university. Don’t you just love fate? I had to read the letter several (many) times to believe it was true. It was. Someone who was feminine wanted to check me out and get physical. My exultation was palpable. I took the letter with me while I visited a range of confectionery establishments in Purley and read it every 30 minutes just to convince myself that I wasn’t in the third dimension. I wasn’t. My sales that day were well below average. My heart rate and libido were well above.
It was that evening, as the initial excitement waned ever so slightly, that it occurred to me that this might be another large lady. Maybe her sister? Not unexciting, but not quite what my over-stimulated mind was visualising. On a loop. Then I remembered that I’d marked each envelope individually so I knew which reply came from which advertisement. I checked the appropriate ad - ‘Slim, professional lady, 30’s, seeks the company of young, virile men - W. London’. Smitten. Hook, line and sinker. Bingo. Correspondence took place. My retarded handwriting, her typing. It didn’t seem to diminish her enthusiasm, although the instructions were staccato. We were to meet in her flat. I was to drive into the underground car park ‘unobtrusively’ (good job she didn’t know about the custard) and gain entry via a pre-provided code and take the lift to the third floor and arrive at her apartment at exactly 4pm, 6 days hence.
I took the day off. No good trying to work on this particular day. It took me at least four hours to decide on an appropriate wardrobe for such an occasion. I had little experience of dressing for seduction. Let alone undressing. After trying on virtually my whole wardrobe in front of a long mirror I settled with what I first tried on four hours previously. Trust your intuition. I drove into the car park early, nonchalantly pretending that bright yellow was a perfectly acceptable colour for the automobile of a stud on a mission. Hoping no one would notice that the stud was, in fact, me.
I took the lift at 3.58pm. The lump in my throat was preventing me swallowing, let alone breathing. The lump in my trousers was preventing me from moving, let alone perambulating. Expensive furnishings. Shag pile carpet. My little joke. Deep breath. Ring doorbell. Paralysis by anticipation.
What greeted me surpassed all of my expectations. Business suit. Petite. Brunette hair up. Minimal make up. Natural beauty. Perfume. Stocking and heels. Slim. Stunning. Mid 30’s. Welcoming smile. Piercing eyes. Instructress. Provocateur. I tried hard to pretend that being in a beautiful flat with a gorgeous, mid-30’s business woman that was dressed to ask her bank manager in a very suggestive way for a bank loan, was normal for a very young and inexperienced student let alone an erstwhile confectionery salesman. I was very wet behind the ears, where she was wet was about to become apparent.
She was initially charming and could sense my awe. I became aware that this amused her. She put me at ease by saying some very nice things, surprisingly about me. I grew another inch everywhere. By now inches were multiplying. We were sitting on her very nice, deep sofa, she was only inches away with her hand on my knee looking me straight in the eye asking me if I was comfortable. I felt like The Graduate. The problem was I hadn’t yet graduated. The other problem was that her skirt had risen above her stocking tops. Yet another problem was that my excitement was becoming extremely obvious. She’d clearly been on a business course about turning problems into opportunities. She was very keen to get to grips with them and offer me some relief. Even clichés can’t capture the pleasure of what ensued. My graduation arrived two years early. Suddenly a freshman no more…..
‘Kiss me’, she insisted. I needed no second invitation. Our lips explored and tongues darted inquisitively, a situation intensified by her placing my hand on one of her breasts. Initially through her silk blouse but, as if frustrated by the containment, she undid the buttons and unclasped her bra without disengaging from my lips. Her hunger for me was becoming intense. But she never lost her composure. She needed to stay in charge. The boss. She wanted my inexperience on her terms. She made all the moves and issued instructions along the way. ‘Undo the zip’; ‘kiss my neck’; ‘suck my nipple’; ‘show me your cock’; ‘put your finger inside and taste me’. Broken up by compliments and encouragement. ‘I like it when you touch me there’; ‘such a beautiful cock’; ‘it arouses me to see you so excited’; ‘I know you can pleasure me’. I didn’t say a word. Nothing I could have said would have made sense. I was in the hands of an expert who wasn’t only a business woman but also a teacher. A head teacher no less. But that was for another time…..
Of course it didn’t all go smoothly at least for my self-esteem. The moment she freed my cock and started masturbating me I came like a steam train. Instead of being disappointed she relished the adolescent indiscretion and told me how proud she was of me. It took me about 90 seconds to re-find my enthusiasm (not that I ever lost it). She said she was even more proud of me and there was something that she needed me to do. She rolled onto her back like a cat stretching before having it’s tummy rubbed and told me in words that were unlikely to be misinterpreted ‘fuck me’. In order to make sure that I didn’t mess this up she applied the protection in a matter of seconds and guided my cock to exactly the right place and told me to push. The guttural pleasure that came from the deepest recesses of her throat as I thrust with no finesse, but plenty of enthusiasm, seemed to propel her into a state of unfettered frenzy. She urged me to ‘do it harder, faster’. Throughout she maintained control of the whole situation and, although the intensity of the union clearly brought her world into temporary disarray, she was quick to tell me that I was a ‘very lucky boy’. I didn’t argue. The real world arrived quickly. Apparently she was having a meeting soon and I was to leave ‘discretely’ and she would contact me again. Would I like to see her again? I reverted to stammering and struggled to find any appropriate words of thanks. I fully expected never to hear from her again.
I spent the next couple of weeks either re-living every moment in the bathroom or moping around like a love-struck teenager. I applied for a temporary separation from my girlfriends in Mayfair. They’d been rendered completely surplus to requirements. The truth was this wasn’t love; it was a massive case of lust. With very good reason. It was as horny and arousing as it could get. The teacher in the business suit showing me the way and seeming to relish my inept fumbling and my wide-eyed incredulity at her illicit availability. Every boy’s dream and every man’s graduation ceremony.