What is Jen up to? I ask myself as I click on the LushStories website.
“Yeah!” I say to myself as a silly grin slips onto my face. There is a new competition and I normally do well at these. My mind suddenly goes into overdrive as my interest peaks.
I read on.
“Punked!” I exclaim, once again, to the four walls of my home office.
“What the fuck!” I have no idea what that word means.
Here I am, Mrs Rachael Andrews, forty-six, an English schoolteacher with two fucking degrees. Alright, not degrees in fucking, English Language and English Literature to be exact, and yet I have no idea about this competition subject matter.
What does ‘Punked’ really mean?
I read the competition notes, and analyse them… Cyberpunk, Steampunk, Gothicpunk, and in my mind, I see robots, steam engines, and Batman; yet I am still none the wiser.
I question myself… There must be a good story idea out there; how about a steam-driven robot that is shaped like Batman?
I mutter, “That is a bad idea!”
Rachael, I thought, as my brain starts to talk to itself, you’re better than this. Get some of your own ideas, and don’t just delve into Google. I will ask Mike, my husband, he may see the word Punked from a different angle and he’s been known to have the occasional good story idea.
I leave my office with a little more hope and go to the living room. I know he is in there, watching the big football match, his team being Arsenal.
“Who’s playing?” I ask, not having a clue. When I don’t get an immediate reply, I ruffle his too-long, greying hair.
“Manchester United, Arsenal,” he grunts, his eyes never leaving the screen as kick-off approaches.
“Mike, if I say ‘Punked’, what does that mean to you?”
My husband turns and looks at me, confused. As he does so, I know his eyes are only temporarily withdrawn from the television.
“Punked?” he questions.
“Yes, Punked,” I confirm as I suddenly realise I have now said that word more times in the last five minutes than I have done in my life.
“Rachael, to me, it means a prank.” He hesitated, still thinking, “Or something to do with Punk Rock.”
“Why do you ask?”
I explained to my husband about the LushStories competition, though I had the feeling he tuned out a little when he realised it was to do with my writing. He knows how I take it seriously, how I like to do well… even win. It was a bit like him and how he supports his favourite professional football team.
“So Mike, does Cyberpunk, Steampunk, Gothicpunk; there are others, mean anything to you?”
My husband quickly glances back at the telly; I know he is only interested in the football. I notice the players are now tossing a coin. Even a football Luddite like me knows that means kick-off is imminent.
“You could try our son or John. He was a Punk Rocker, back in the day,” Mike grunts without turning his head, his mind now on the telly.
With the sound of the whistle, I leave Mike to his sixty-inch game of football and sink back into my office chair; my mind rapidly shifting away from my story.
The name John had sent a tingle through my body. He was a player, the bad boy of the neighbourhood, older, always up to something a little crooked. Everyone knew that in his youth he had been to prison. Though more importantly, he had been hitting on me since he moved back into the neighbourhood, just two doors down, six weeks ago.
I thought back to two weeks ago and the late summer barbecue which we hosted. How John, fuelled with alcohol, had come up behind me and whispered in my ear, “Rachael, I want to fuck you!”
How his hand gently rested on my bottom and then caressed it, and with it, that shiver which followed. How it resonated up and down my spine, my nerves sending their brief messages, upwards, to my temporal lobes, and then downwards straight to my pussy. They were erotic quivers of unexpected sexual pleasure.
But what shocked me, more than John’s loose and slightly slurred words, was my reaction. I hadn’t pushed his hand away. I had let it wander over my tight summer shorts, feel me, and incite wanton thoughts that had been long lurking deep within me.
John’s action went unnoticed and unrewarded; I hadn’t told Mike; I just couldn’t.
But there was something else; I knew that the physical attraction went both ways. John was so different to my husband, ten years older, shaven-headed, stocky, and even slightly craggy; with both his arms sleeved with tattoos. Mike was almost the polar opposite, tall, long-haired, slim, even gangly, and somewhat geeky.
Mike was a sports watcher rather than a player, while John was unmarried and definitely a player when it came to bedding women. There was no doubt he wanted to add me to his harem.
But was I tempted?
I thought back, that illicit moment, it had continued… John had pulled me into him, his hand placing mine onto the front of his shorts.
It was an action which had caused me to gasp as my body tensed up. But it had also given my hand new life… I squeezed his semi-hard cock. It was long, very thick, so much larger than my husband’s. It felt like a python lurking there, beneath the thin material, ready to slither out and wrap around me, enticing me into John’s arms and his harem.
I remembered John’s brown eyes, and how they had bored into me, searching my soul, looking for the recognition that I wanted him… my reaction, a mask. I tried my best to keep my face neutral. But it was there, if he looked hard enough. That instant dampness between my legs, the thought which flashed through me, that I wished we were on our own.
My physical reaction, after my gentle squeeze… I had turned to find the safety net of my husband, but at that moment, my mind and my pussy were still lurking with John.
I felt flushed and dreamy, sitting there in my office; thinking back to that night, to John, to his cock. My hand was now in my shorts, resting on my sparse, red pubic hair, and my fingers exploring my damp slit. My intimate, private thoughts left me horny, but mainly confused.
It was a similar feeling to what I was now having with this new story competition.
That night, it had happened all so fast, yet every second had been embedded, deep within my mind. At forty-six, it had been my first experience of a man coming so strongly onto me, but it made me realise something… I liked it!
I removed my hand; I needed to phone our son, Adam.
At twenty-six he was still single, but also not gay. Adam worked in I.T. and lived on his own in a small house only a few miles away. Instead of girlfriends and partying, he had chosen to spend most of his life living in the virtual world. He was a good choice to talk to when it came to fantasy genres as he lived them, playing his Dungeons and Dragons, and his other adventure computer games.
As I pick up my mobile phone, I chuckle to myself, my horniness now temporally forgotten. Adam thinks I write historical romance stories, not hot, steamy erotica.
“Hi Adam, mum here,” I cheerfully say, knowing I am going to get a grunt. I then hear it. I smile; it is the same sound that Mike made to me earlier.
“I know mum, we have caller I.D. these days… Please wait a sec.” I smile. This is so familiar, of course. I knew about caller I.D. but I didn’t want my son to think that I might know something about the modern age. Technology was his job, and asking him about it gave me a good reason to phone him.
“Hi Mum,” then after the normal greetings I went on to explain to Adam about my sudden interest in ‘Punk’ genres, and could he help me?
“Cool mum, Mills & Boon, in a punk environment! That beats your normal historical romances.”
I chuckle to myself. If only he knew.
Adam goes through some of the more popular punk genres. He corrected me about Cyberpunk; it was more than just robots. Steampunk wasn’t just about steam engines; it was about the Victorian era and the use of steam to power, elaborate contraptions. As for Gothicpunk, well, that still sounded like ‘Batman’ to me.
Adam signs off with, “Mum, you need to remember there are hundreds of punk genres. You need to research online, but at the heart of it… is all about non-conformity, fighting cooperative greed and revolution. Though I am not sure how you are going to fit that into your romance story.”
“Neither am I, Adam, neither am l, but thank you… and power to the people.”
Adam laughs as we sign off.
An internet search confirmed quite a bit of what Adam had said, but as I scanned the electronic pages, my mind kept getting drawn back to Punk Rock. Perhaps more accurately, to John and his python cock. I would rather write a story about that!
I sit back in my chair and close my eyes and think. I realise I need time, time to think about John, time to think about my competition story.
As my mind drifts, and my hand slips once again between my legs, I ask myself two questions…
Do I want to resist John’s advances?
Start an affair?
*****
It was exactly a week later, Sunday, and Mike was watching another football match. My feelings towards writing a story about Punk Rockers had grown; a nice steamy romance, with objectionable overtones, the Punk on the street corner.
It was a thought which had started to envelop me, as did the idea of going around to see John for further information.
I didn’t need Cyberpunk, Steampunk or any other imaginary genres. My story was going to be set in the real world, late suburban nineteen-seventies; with Punk Rockers, weird hairstyles and fashions; an anti-establishment, historical romance, with lots of sex.
As I sit here in my office, I start smiling, that idea now growing and grabbing me as my typing fingers start to get twitchy.
It was time to start researching Punk Rockers.
*****
I may have moved into our London suburb when I married my husband, but Mike’s relationship with John went way back, right to his childhood. They were next-door neighbours. However, the ten years age difference between them had made it difficult for them to be close friends, but Mike told me there was mutual respect, and never any trouble between them.
They were also quite different. Mike was quiet, shy, and intelligent; John was almost the opposite. He was the local yob and a member of the local, late nineteen-seventy, Punk Rocker gang. They lived on the street corner and specialised in frightening anyone who walked past.
I had heard the stories, the way the gang used to relieve children of their dinner money, skive off school, do petty vandalism and generally be obnoxious. Though my husband had told me, the gang never did anything to him or his family.
When they grew up, my husband became a teacher; John worked in construction but somehow got caught up in a building scam and ended up spending a short time in prison. As the years passed, there were nods between the two, and small chats in the street as they ran into each other, but nothing more.
I looked on from afar until John moved into our street. Now things felt so very different.
Here I am, a forty-six-year-old married mother. With long red hair, C-cup perky tits, a trim figure, a perk bottom and my best feature, my long dances legs, thinking of our neighbour, two doors down; a small-time crook with an enormous cock.
I am once again that schoolgirl, thinking about a hot guy across the class.
For me, it was Timothy Burton, my first boyfriend. He took my virginity at sixteen, and was more like Mike, never the bad boy, quiet, a little shy but with cute dimples and a cheeky smile. Tim and I did a lot of growing up together, not just sex, but blossoming into young adults.
But he didn’t stand a chance when Mike appeared. I was eighteen and had just started University.
Mike was four years older and wiser. To me, he seemed so grown up. It wasn’t long before we were seriously dating. Tim was now a fading memory. Our dating became courting, our sex life fairly vanilla, but regular. Mike and I married, and Adam came along. He was unplanned but never regretted by me, especially as, despite trying, no other children were conceived.
In those three years, I grew up so much; it was when we moved here, London suburbia, to a place we have never left. My youth, and any planned exciting life, were all put on hold when I became a wife and a mother.
But it never occurred to me until recently that I might be missing out sexually. That some girls were enjoying a different type of sexual utopia, one more in line with what I write about. It was the knowledge that I first learned from girlfriends, and then from watching the ‘Chippendales’ stage show, and finally internet porn. But it was our neighbour, John, who confirmed it; the fact that the only men I had been sexual with, Timothy and Mike, have, at best, average-size cocks.
