However much the care of George and the spa bath had restored Jennifer, she was still partially drunk and shaken from her experience earlier in the night. Lying wide awake in the luxurious bed, she stared up at the ceiling, at the encased rail running from the ceiling’s centre to over the bed. It occurred to Jennifer that this room was meant for an invalid or paraplegic. But the pulley and steel hook was not over the bed, as she had seen in the hospital when she visited Brian.

The contraption made Jennifer’s mind wandered off - for the first time after years - into thinking of Brian. He had been her golden boy surfer, the one lover that had fucked her – the first time ever - into blinding sexual bliss. Then his spine was shattered on the rocks, now – when was it – more than thirty years ago. And she, his champion Beachgirl, proved to be a heel and a coward. She never went back to the hospital, and their town was just big enough to avoid seeing her broken lover ever again!

Suddenly, back in the dark trance of her past, Jennifer believed she heard the voice of Mr Hempel, her nerdy Form 6 English teacher, reciting his fucking Shakespeare: “Golden lads and girls all must, like chimney sweepers come to dust.” Yes, this was her: an aging Milf, now an opportunistic charity-fuck for golden lads like Steve, like Brian – she counted – thirty-seven years ago had been.

Jennifer began to cry and sank into the pit of grey despair. As then with Brian, finally, her time had come too. All that was left now was to be picked up from the floor and taken into care by an almost elderly George!

And the day had begun so well. In her yellow, the newest of her eleven bikinis, Jennifer had locked the door of her unit. With her Chilli Surfboard under her arm and beach bag shouldered, she had strolled down to her favourite beach. It was a fab day, not too burning hot, with just enough of a breeze and enough of a swell to please her five-foot-six Chilli.

By one-o-clock, her usual mob – including the hard-partying late sleepers and a few short-time adopted backpackers – had arrived. The afternoon passed with surfing and the usual horseplay in the waves and on the sand. Jennifer was in her element. Although so much younger than her in her well-preserved fifties, this mob were her kind of people.

Jennifer had already invited most of them, once or twice, for a pizza or pie night to her unit. Therefore, she had expected to be included in their farewell party tonight. Three of their backpacker friends, two German girls and a Danish boy, were leaving for home. Flush with money from their last jobs and the flight home to their affluent parents paid, they stayed for their final days in the luxury of the Esplanade, Banks Inlet’s largest hotel.

As the night progressed, their party in one of the hotel’s smaller function rooms got lively. Most of the boys stuck to beer, while the girls, Jennifer included, followed the local tradition. They were drowning their inhibitions – if any - in Bundy-and-Coke. And as the hours passed, in the mix in their glasses, the golden glow of the Bundaberg rum prevailed more and more over the sobering brown of the Yankee Cola.

The boys, as usual in their parties, outnumbered the girls by about two to one. Therefore, they soon divided into one matey group of serious drinkers and the boys on the make. The latter either had a girlfriend or were in hope for a fuck of the night. And Jennifer thought, after her third glass of Bundy-and-Coke, cunningly mixed for her by Steve, that she might be in unforeseen luck.

Although only twenty-one Steve was, in Jennifer’s Beachgirl judgement, the Alpha male in their mob. Well on the way to becoming a top-competition surfer, Steve, with his blond mane, athletic body, and ready smile, was the type of man/boy Jennifer had lusted after since her early teens, back then on the beach in Ballina.

And tonight, Steve has fastened on her, always on her side, laughing and joking. His hand cupped more and more often one of her bra-sheltered boobs or came to rest on her thigh. It was, Jennifer was sure, a seductive caress and not just a grope in passing. And God, did she know the difference, after her thirty-plus Beachgirl years!

So, when Steve – Jennifer thought – finally decided to catch the wave and asked her to fuck, she readily agreed. And the familiar hot flash welled readily up in her pussy. Being a nice boy, Steve had not, of course, been so crudely blunt in asking her. True, his hand had gripped her thigh precariously close to pussy as he propositioned her: “God, Jenny, I wish I could make love to a sexy Milf like you!”

In her eagerness, Jennifer swallowed the insult of being seen as a Milf. Without dislodging Steve’s hand already fingering her dampening crotch, Jennifer giggled drunkenly and said, “Great idea. But where and when?” The question was for her rhetorical; she had pretty much made up her mind to take Steve home tonight to her condo.

However, Steve had other ideas. He got up and walked across the room to the drinkers. There, Steve leaned affectionately over Karl, the gay Danish backpacker. Jennifer watched him smiling up at Steve as he reached in his pocket for his room card.

On returning to Jennifer, Steve waved the plastic before her face and grinned, “This is the ‘where.’ Holding out one hand, inviting her to stand up, he asked with a sly grin, “Why not now, Jennifer? Karl’s room is only one floor up.” Jennifer dismissed with a why-not shrug her twinge of reluctance and rose. Steve grabbed the Bundy bottle from the table and, with his arm slung possession-taking around Jennifer’s bare midriff, dragged her away.

Once they were in Karl’s room, Jennifer’s unease mounted. As the door clicked shut and Steve switched on the light, she had turned towards him to press her needy body against his. Lifting her face, she expected his kiss, and Steve reluctantly put his closed lips on hers. Then he mumbled, “We didn’t come for a smooch, did we, Jennifer?” Grabbing her hair, he pushed her down on her knees. Pressing her face on his crotch, he chuckled, “You came for this! You are a cock-hungry Milf, aren’t you, Jennifer? Come on, show me!”

Although Jennifer’s unease was mounting, the Bundy and lust prevailed over sense. Her practised fingers found the zip and unwrapped her trophy. When Jennifer looked up, Steve’s face was turned sideways, and his expression gave nothing away. For a moment, Jennifer wondered whether Steve meant the Milf word to insult her or was it a clumsy tease to begin their sexy frolics? As her lips closed over Steve’s semi-limp prick, Jennifer was determined to either teach the boy a lesson or turn her Adonis into the lover a Beachgirl, like her, still deserved.

Steve’s cock was slow in responding to Jennifer’s loving ministrations. Getting impatient, once his cock achieved a level of hardness, Steve attempted to fuck Jennifer’s mouth. As he did not hold, much less caress her head, and she was no longer an ignorant girl, Jennifer frustrated his attempts by pulling back her face in countering each of Steve’s jerking, ineffective thrusts.

Disappointed, Steve reached down for her. Jennifer lifted her arms, expecting Steve to strip her of her half-blouse and free her boobs from the confines of her bra. She was eager to get naked, to show Steve what a beautiful woman she was. But Steve reached under her arms and jerked her up. She heard a tear, and her boobs sagged a little. She looked questioningly at Steve; his face seemed no longer pretty, as he flatly ordered: -

“Get on the bed and your knees! You Milfs, with your old pussies, love a good shag from behind, don’t you!”

In a state of momentary shock, Jennifer allowed herself to be shunted back and onto the bed. As her face pressed into the bedcover and Steve’s grasping fingers tore the panties off her crotch, a flash of clarity in her mind made her decide not to resist.

She would give this stupid boy his meaningless fuck! She had been foolish. To rush off now offended would only subject her to ridicule and condescending pity in their circle of friends. With luck, Steve would not tell and boast how she had surrendered to his useless cock.

So, Jennifer let him hump away, stupidly, artless, until, after two minutes or so, Steve unloaded in her with a drawn-out grunt. There had been no need for Jennifer to bite into the covers. And as Steve withdrew his quickly shrinking member from her cunt, she turned away from him and curled up. Steve mumbled something as he got dressed. Then there was a click.

When Jennifer eventually sat up on the bed, Steve was gone. However, he had left his half bottle of Bundy on the bedside table. As she reached for it, Jennifer grinned. The boy was too insensitive and stupid to have left it knowingly behind as her consolation.

And as she took her first burning mouthful of Bundy straight, she swallowed with it the knowledge that she was now too old and would, from now on, be too wise to get charity-fucked by a stupid bully boy again. And with every next sip, as she emptied the bottle, the pain of such loss lessened!

Much later in the night, Jennifer heard from far away a knocking which she ignored. But then, somebody shook her arm, and a foreign-sounding voice told her to get up and leave. It was the Dane. As she stumbled to the door, Steve’s sticky left-behinds oozed down her leg.

Outside in the corridor, Jennifer turned too quickly to shut the door. Losing her balance, she slid down the wall. As it dawned on her drunken mind that she never could get up again, the tears started trickling down her cheeks.

In this state of despair, George Ironmonger found her. He, the owner of the hotel, passed her on going to his private annex. He bent down over her to ask if she were alright and if he could help her to her feet. But then, smelling the alcohol on her breath, George straightened up. He reached for his phone to tell the reception to have this drunk woman removed.

In giving a last look at Jennifer’s strong, attractive face, now with tears flowing down her cheeks, he suddenly remembered. He had seen her before, a mature, noticeably beautiful, well-dressed woman, coming out of a shop in Banks Inlet’s centre. He had watched her getting into a late model Alpha Romeo and drive off.

So, George Ironmonger helped Jennifer to her feet and half-carried her to his apartment. What motivated him was not only a kindness extended by one respectable citizen of the town to another in a compromising situation. Seeing her state of despair awoke in George specific memories. George suddenly felt he had to help this woman in her shamefully vulnerable condition.

Getting half-dragged and half carried through the hallway and then through George’s apartment into his spare bedroom had upset Jennifer’s stomach. Swaying on her feet next to the bed, she clung to George and whimpered, “Where is the toilet? I’m going to be sick.” So, George walked her, as quickly as her hesitant steps allowed, into the adjoining bathroom.

As Jennifer sank to her knees to embrace the toilet bowl, her hands slipped. She would have fallen in her vomit on the floor, but George caught her. Holding her head gently but firmly over the bowl, Jennifer rid herself of most of the night’s toxic mix.

After her ordeal, Jennifer sat, leaning against the toilet bowl, dejected on the floor. She watched in silence as George, without looking at her, filled a spa bath with steaming water. Then, with the water set bubbling, he added a generous dash of rose-scented oil. Now, turning to her, George smiled.

He only said, “Come.” As he pulled her up from the floor, Jennifer stumbled into his arms. While she held on to his neck and tried to smile into George’s concerned but unsmiling face, he began to undress her.

Drained of all shame, she let him. Off came her crumbled half-blouse, her bra hanging on a thread, her skirt, and then, with George on a knee, her soiled and torn panties. As Jennifer stepped out of them, with her hand gripping his shoulder, she looked down. George’s eyes were on the ground and not, only centimetres away, on her unclean pussy.

And then, his strong hands supported her as she stepped gingerly into the tub before he lowered her body into the wash of the warm, swirling water. Then George turned away. He dimmed the lights and went into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar.

After five minutes or so, he returned. Stepping up to the spa bath, he looked down on Jennifer. First, he ran his eyes deliberately slowly over her stretched out body as it lay in the pulsating water. He responded with a grin to the hesitant smile but wide-open, questioning eyes with which Jennifer observed his looking her over. Her hands, open and relaxed next to her body, did not attempt to cover either her breasts or her shaven, bare sex.

Showing her the bathrobe he had brought, George put it on a chair and said: -

“I’ll help you out of the bath when you are ready. The bed is made. I hope you’ll have a good night. By the way, my name is George, George Ironmonger. I own this hotel. We can talk over breakfast if you want before I drive you home. If not, if you prefer to leave, there is a backdoor.”