“Hi. We're going for lunch. Want to join us?” It was my mother talking. She had just found me leaving her friend Edna's house, she and their other friends Dorothy and Grace having just “happened” to park in Edna's street to walk to the pub.

As I left her house this time we had just enjoyed an incredible morning of water sports as part of our programme of taking the self-consciousness out of sex and just doing whatever we wanted, the more taboo the better. What we had nominally been doing was working on a way to get Edna, a recently retired teacher, some work as a proofreader in the publishing world in London, where I was an illustrator.

The ladies insisted that Edna join us for lunch; I had no excuse but she had to be somewhere that afternoon, so it required all the pressure three old friends could exert. We sat at a table in the beer garden of a twee old pub that probably looked more olde worlde now than it ever had in its early days.

“So how's it going, you two?” Mum asked.

“Coming along,” I said, while Edna mumbled, “Possibilities, we've explored a few avenues.”

“Avenues indeed,” Grace said with a rather bitter smirk. She was one of nature's malcontents, a troublemaker, and if ever I had fucked a woman and worried about the repercussions, it was with her. Having tempted me into her house, she had contrived to give me an upskirt show through no fault of my own, and I had ended up being the first man since her long-dead husband to lie between her legs and invade her private space. And very nice too, I have to admit, but I could tell she wanted to turn it into a complicated situation. “And how are your avenues after all this time?” Grace asked with a sickly smile. “Still lined with leafy trees or has autumn set in?”

“Oh, Philip's been doing a bit of sprucing up,” Edna said. “He's very handy with the metaphorical equipment.”

“I bet he is,” Grace said, a flicker of lust wakening her eyes as she remembered the maintenance I had done with her. “Why bother with the shears when you can chew the leaves, eh Philip?”

“Bizarre,” my mother said dismissively, accustomed to Grace's bitchiness.

Dorothy was subdued. Mum had told me she was fond of me and she clearly felt uncomfortable at the tone of the conversation, although Dorothy was probably worried about it turning in her direction, because she knew nothing about my adventures with Grace or Edna.

Mum managed to steer the conversation onto safer ground and we found ourselves in a happy, lunchtime-drinks haze, talking about the way  people had changed, how standards had dropped and there was so much swearing on TV and films, and how girls had descended to the level of the tattooed yobs to whom they gave their bodies. This was largely Mum's view, but there was general agreement around the table. Then something bumped against my leg, retreated and landed again, gently and firmly, staying put. I leaned back and subtly glanced under the table to find Dorothy's bare foot on my sockless ankle.

“Naked shoulders,” Dorothy said. “That used to be a way of attracting a man, but now...” I remembered with a brief flush of my cheeks that I had told her how much I liked her shoulders during our hour together. “I'm sorry, Philip, I'm embarrassing you,” she said, touching my hand. “You're one of the nice guys.” This seemed to please Grace, who knew for a fact that I wasn't all that nice, if nice meant not being interested in seducing women, or being seduced.

“Ah, there's so much crap talked these days,” Edna interrupted. “Isn't this disgusting, isn't that outrageous, and it's all because they wish they were doing it themselves, but because it's somebody else, it's wrong. Live and let live. If some man wants to kiss your... let's say shoulders, and if it leads to something else, so what? As long as nobody gets hurt.” She looked at me for support and I gave her a bland smile of affirmation. “Anyway, I've got to fly,” she said, and off she flew.

The rest of us settled down for something of a session, which surprised me considering I was in the company of three middle-aged ladies. But why not? They had no commitments to honour, no kids to pick up from school, no husbands to cook dinner for.

Dorothy continued to play footsy with me and I returned the compliment as far as I could, without attracting attention. Grace was beginning to get drunk, and like the respectable citizen she is, she decided to take the spectacle home, away from the public gaze. So half an hour later we were at her house and I was sitting where I had been the last time.

“Sherry?” she called in the loud, confident way her upbringing had instilled in her. She was Celia Johnson crossed (in her own mind, at least) with Joan Sims , the classy but naughty hostess keeping the party going.

Mum, sitting next to me, whispered in my ear, “Oh god, this could get silly. She's a bugger when she's had a few. I'll have one and then I'm off. You coming?” I said no, I would hang around for a bit, and soon it was just me and the two secretly naughty girls.

“Let's play a game,” Grace bellowed. “Find the star. I have some sticky stars like they use at schools. We'll draw lots for who's 'it', and he or she lies on the floor with their eyes closed and has to find the star. Okay?” Dorothy and I mumbled our dubious consent and Grace got us to draw matchsticks from her pudgy fist. I drew the short one.

“On the floor!” Grace commanded. “On your back. Close your eyes.”

I did as I was told while she and Dorothy conferred above me. I could hear them walking around, giggling, and eventually there was gasp from Dorothy, followed by a shriek of laughter from both of them.

“Okay,” Grace called. “Open your eyes. Now, the star is where stars are supposed to be, above you facing down. You can move around but only on your back.”

As Grace poured herself a schooner of sherry, I looked at the ceiling and under the dining table, the nest of tables, the dining chairs. The women, each wearing a skirt, were hovering nearby. I spotted something on the side of Dorothy's knee and shouted, “There!”

“You have to touch it,” Grace admonished, so I struggled over to Dorothy and reached up to indicate what I had found.

“That's a spot, not a star,” Grace said, as Dorothy stood uncomfortably, wishing she and I were alone, which I was wishing too.

Then I spied another, on Grace's ankle, and I reached over and touched it.

“Triangle,” Grace said. “Getting warmer, though.” she drained her glass and poured another.

“Look upwards,” Grace called. “Follow the yellow brick ladder.” She stroked her leg for emphasis and I saw the star in the place she had showed me a few days earlier, the crotch of her panties. Grace raised her right leg for the big reveal and as he did so, she toppled backwards and crashed on top of the coffee table. She came to rest there, groaning, and Dorothy and I helped her onto the settee. She lay there for a minute while Dorothy fetched a glass of water and I stroked Grace's head like an injured child.

“Oh damn!” she growled. “Bloody room's spinning. It's those cocktails at the pub, you never know what's in them. I'd better lie down. Help me through, Philip, there's a dear.” We laboured through to the bedrooms and she ushered me past the spare one where we had had our romp, and into her own room, a busy, tidy symphony in beige. Dorothy escorted us for the sake of propriety and we settled Grace, fully clothed, on the bed on her side. As we left the room she was groaning softly.

“She'll be all right,” Dorothy said. “She does this now and then. Miss Perfect lets herself down. Now, shall we finish the game? We can do it standing up.” She put her arms around me and I allowed her to lean against me, then took her buttocks in my hands.

“One more star,” she said. “Same area as the last one, different galaxy.”

My hand slipped down between her legs and I found the shiny object stuck fast to the gusset of her panties.

“She wanted you to find both,” Dorothy said. “Safety in numbers. She's...”

I interrrupted her.

“I want to lick you,” I said. Dorothy smiled.

“One of your comprehensive ones,” she said. “Oh yes please.”

I sat Dorothy on the edge of the settee and pushed her back so she was almost lying down. I reached in and pulled her panties down, as she wriggled to assist me. Then I pushed her skirt up over her waist and pulled her knees apart. Her furry epicentre stared at me with all its mysterious promises.

“God you're rude,” Dorothy said.

“We've done it before,” I pointed out.

“You have licked me,” she protested. “And that's sort of normal. But looking at my bits: that is rude.”

“It's exciting,” I said. “For me, anyway.” I stood up and took off my jeans and underpants. “You can look at me,” I offered. “You like that, don't you?”

“Looking at a man's penis?” she said, considering the options of agreement or argument, acquiescence or sparring. “Yes, I like looking at your penis. But you're supposed to be licking me.”

“Sorry,” I said playfully. “Where are my manners?”

“Exactly,” she said. “I'll tell your mother.”

“Tell her what?” I countered. “That you let her son fuck you not once but twice? That he licked your crotch and your arse? That you loved it when he looked at your naked crotch but were too shy to admit it? That you stared at his erection and wanted to suck him off?”

Dorothy put her arms up, begging me to get started. I knelt quickly and wrapped my arms around her thighs, then pulled her towards me and plunged my face into her crotch.

“Turn over," I teased.

Dorothy turned around and as she did so she removed her top and bra. In a few seconds she was naked, kneeling on her friend's settee with her arms on the back and her rump exposed to a man who was about to lick it.

“Go on, then,” she said.

Never one to spurn a lady's good nature, I gave this particular lady what she never would have dreamed she wanted, not until a couple of days earlier. I licked her beautiful brown eye and she hummed to herself, a hymn, of all things. Then she seemed to change gear. She stiffened and said sharply, “Get inside me now.”

I adjusted my position, put my hands on her haunches and mounted her from behind.

“Getting yourself fucked from behind on Grace's settee,” I admonished her. “Have you no shame?” Suddenly she stopped cooperating.

“Don't say that,” she said seriously. “Because it's true. I have no shame at this moment. Just shag me and make me come like a gentleman.”

“Dorothy,” I said sincerely, “I think you're a wonderful woman and I have the greatest respect for you.' I picked up the pace of my pumping. “I love what we're doing and I know it takes a lot for you to allow yourself, but it's good, its right.”

“Shhh!" she said. “I'm coming.” And she began to tremble with the excess of feeling that causes orgasm, and writhed and bent herself so I was deeper than ever inside her. This tipped me over the edge and I gripped her shoulders and forced myself into her, pumping my semen into her lovely, respectable, unloved, underestimated depths.