The taxi glided smoothly through the centre of town as I stared out into the dusk of the evening.  The yellow streetlights blinked into life as in silence I passed all the familiar buildings that hold such a special place in my heart.  The church, the school and town hall all disappeared out of view as we drove out of my small home town and into the countryside.

When I left the children with my sister-in-law Karen, they were so full of excitement that they hardly noticed me leave.  Obviously, the prospect of spending a night with their auntie, uncle and cousins, held way more of an attraction than waving their mum off.

In the end, I was pleased that they didn’t.  I felt so guilty and insecure as if everyone was watching.  I could somehow sense the air of disapproval as the taxi driver appeared to steal glances at me continually in his rear-view mirror.  I tried to read his mind as his eyes examined me, his scrutinising gaze working their way up my stocking-clad legs, judging me.  The middle-aged woman travelling alone to a hotel sealing his impression of me as the very image of a cheating housewife.

Karen had made me promise to text her as soon as I arrived at the hotel and at regular intervals during the evening.  She had also ordered me to call if there were any problems with Michael, unnecessarily reassuring me that her husband John would drive out and pick me up.  I just wanted to drop the kids and run.  But Karen was having none of it.

“Now,” she continued, not picking up on my body language, “you will text me when you get there?”

“Yes.”

“And if at any time you feel uncomfortable, or if he pushes you into anything, call.  John can be there in fifteen minutes.”  God knows what she thinks he’s going to do in the middle of a hotel restaurant, but I just agreed.

“Yes, yes, of course, I will.” She stopped me at the front door and looked at me.

“Just be safe.  I’ll be thinking of you,” she said, acting more like my mother than my best friend for over forty years.

The taxi’s headlights danced among the trees as we made our way along the winding country roads.  Strangely, having the children released from my care also released new confidence in me.  Yes, I was nervous, but it was an excited nervousness.  Like the first day back at school after a long summer holiday.

Earlier, Jane had arrived at my house carrying a bottle of Dutch courage.  She was officially there to help me dress and sort my hair, but her real job was to stop me having a nervous breakdown.  I was sitting in just my underwear as she strolled into my bedroom; bottle in one hand, two glasses in the other.

“You lucky bitch Claire,” she said, setting the bottle and glasses down on the dresser, and standing behind me.  “You carry all your weight in the right places,” she added, cupping my tits in her hands.  We both laughed, but I could now see what she meant.  I’ve always been on the busty side, but luckily, I’ve never had a great problem controlling my weight.

Having said that, without support, my boobs no longer sit quite where they used to.  My new bra had pushed them together into a quite spectacular cleavage, even if I say so myself.  As I stared back at her, I could sense that something was wrong.  Jane was a little distant.  Despite the obvious bravado, she wasn’t herself.

“You okay?” I asked, watching her reaction.  She stared down at the carpet, and then over to the wall.  Notably avoiding eye contact.

“Listen, I’m here for you,” she said, changing the subject while pouring two glasses of Prosecco.”  This is your night.  Have a lovely evening,” she said, raising her glass.  Her time with me did take the edge off my nerves.  I don’t know whether it was the conversation or the sparkling wine, but it worked.

I knew the hotel well; I must have driven past it a thousand times before.  It was about five miles out of town, set back in woodland leading to Sommersdale lake.  My hope was that, because the location was so remote, I would avoid running into any familiar faces.  The thought of having to explain myself, or invent a story, was my worst nightmare.

My phone pinged.  It was Michael.

“Hi.  Before we meet, I thought it would be fun if we were allowed to ask each other one question.  We must tell the truth.  What is your biggest fantasy?”

I knew immediately what mine was.  It has been my go-to fancy for so long.  I would let my imagination play the scene out in my mind.  Never have I spoken to anyone about it, not even Jason.

Many years ago, before I was married, I was at a house party, somebody’s birthday, I think.  While I was upstairs looking for the toilet, I passed the half-open door of a bedroom.  Sitting in the dark were a group of boys drinking and watching porn on an old TV.

I peered in from the safety of the dimly lit hallway, strangely excited by my predicament.  I wanted to leave, but I was drawn to the jumpy, grainy film on the television.  I was in the precarious position of hiding from the boys in the room, along with the embarrassing threat of being caught by anyone venturing upstairs.

In reality, it was quite difficult not to laugh at the unimaginative mix of predictable scenarios and ridiculous dialogue, and to be honest, I was actually perplexed as to what it was that turned the boys on.  But then in one of the scenes, a woman is taken by two men.

She was laid on a bed and stripped naked.  One guy knelt by her head, pinning her arms down, as she took his cock into her mouth.  I was amazed by how much of his large member she could swallow, staggered that she didn’t choke.

The other man was between her legs, driving his equally large dick into her.  Her legs were wide open, willingly accepting him.  I’d never watched porn before; of course, I’d seen the girlie magazines that were passed around at school and since at work.  But nothing like this.  They were mainly picturing women in various stages of undress.  Occasionally a man’s dick would appear, but it was all very tame.

The stories always held more of an attraction for me.  I’d never even seen an erect penis before, but there it was, before my eyes, on the screen.  I was watching people actually fuck.  From the sound of the woman’s amplified moans, it was difficult for me to make out whether she was in pain or enjoying it, but as her moans grew louder, I continued to spy, wide-eyed, through the narrow crack in the door.

That image of the woman being helplessly held down, and at the mercy of the two men has stayed with me ever since.  I have always wondered what it would feel like to be her.  To be so completely dominated and controlled by others, powerless to respond.

As the taxi turned off the road and through the stately archway, I kept telling myself that I was in control.  That I wouldn’t do anything that I didn’t want to.  But the way this meeting had built up over the months, the tone of the phone calls and text messages gave me a good indication of how this was going to play out.

Deep down I had decided, that unless Michael turned out to be a complete asshole, I would probably be spending the night with him.  I know that sounds cheap, but I’d had plenty of time to make my decision.  I’d weighed up the pros and cons, two columns next to each other.  One had defeated the other quite easily.  In fact, there was only one negative.  My children.  They could never find out.  It was a clear, broad red line.  Never.

I paid the driver and stepped out of the cab when suddenly the enormity of the situation hit me.  I was alone and completely out of my comfort zone.

“Have a good evening,” the driver called, as I slammed shut the cab door.  Even that most innocent of comments spooked me.  What did he really mean?  “Good evening.” Did he know why I was here?  Did everyone know?  This is crazy.  I’m being such a fool.

I walked through the hotel doors, and into the impressively imposing reception area, a bundle of nerves.  This building had once been a Manor House and I guessed that this area was once the entrance hall.  Servants would have greeted guests who would have warmed themselves by the huge open fireplace, which dominated the room, but now stood unused and cold.

“Good evening madam.” The voice belonged to a haughty female receptionist, “how may I help?” Her condescending tone sounded as if she was convinced that I was in the wrong place.

“I’m meeting someone in the bar,” I replied, almost guiltily pointing to the sign.

“Mr Carlisle?” she asked.  It was such a simple question, but it hung in the air between us, as to my horror, I realised that I had no idea what his surname was, and she knew it.  “Michael Carlisle?” she added, with a glint of satisfaction in her eye.  She knew exactly why I was there, didn’t she, and she also knew that I didn’t belong.

She must see this happen all the time in her line of work.  I mean, why else would a middle-aged woman be meeting a young man in a hotel.  Did she think I was an escort or some cheap over-the-hill prostitute?  Or even worse, as she smiled at me from behind the reception desk, did she know the truth.  That I was just a desperately lonely widow.

“Yes,” was all I could mumble in reply, unable to look at her as I turned and made my way towards the entrance to the bar room, trying desperately not to pass out.

“I hope you have a very pleasant evening,” she trilled to my back, making me stop in my tracks.  I could feel my face burning.  This must look ridiculous, what the hell am I doing here.

I recognised Michael as soon as I walked into the room.  He was sitting at the bar with a bottle of beer in his hand.  His tight white, V-neck t-shirt and faded blue jeans looked completely out of place amongst the other guests.  He oozed confidence, seemingly thriving on the attention and disapproving glances from the mostly elderly patrons.

His hair was longer than in his picture, but just as unruly, a little like a young Robert Plant.  It hung in a mess of blond curls that lay on his shoulders.  The broad smile on his tanned face as he noticed me warmed my heart and gave me the extra surge of confidence to continue my walk across the wooden barroom floor to meet him.

“I thought you were going to stand me up,” he said, as he leaned down to kiss me on the cheek, “are you okay?”

“Yes,” I replied, trying to raise a smile, “I’m not really used to this,” I confided, to which a wide smile lit up his face.

“I know.  Drink?” he inquired, pointing to the selection behind the bar.  I’m not a big drinker at the best of times and certainly didn’t want to embarrass myself by getting drunk, but the glass of Dutch courage from earlier had lost its effect and my god, I needed one.

“White wine please, Chardonnay,” I offered, “thank you.” As he turned to the barman to order, my eyes self-consciously scanned the room.  An elderly lady sat with her husband by a large window that looked out over the lake.  From the scowl on her face, as she examined me, it was easy for me to see that she had already formed an unsavoury opinion of me.

“You hungry?” Michael asked, breaking my trance.  I nodded my head in reply, but the truth was I didn’t think I could eat a thing.

The menu was a million miles from my usual Saturday night take away.  Michael chose a bottle of what I considered overly expensive red wine; in fact, he spent more time choosing the wine than he did his food.  

The conversation was easy.  He listened, seemingly intently, as I babbled on about the children, and appeared genuinely saddened when I recounted Jason’s death.  He spoke about his love of travelling and surfing and confessed to me about being the very spoilt youngest child with two older brothers.

The family business afforded him the time and money to do, within reason, pretty much whatever he wanted.  Time flew, and soon we were the only diners left.  Michael ordered a large cognac and sat back in his chair as if contemplating a chess move.

“Have you decided?” Earlier in the week, he had asked me if I was going to stay the night, and I replied that I hadn’t made my mind up.  Now here he was asking me again, and it was exactly what I didn’t want.  I didn’t want to decide, I didn’t want the opportunity to change my mind, I wanted him to push me, force me even.

I didn’t want love, or an emotional tie, I just wanted him to take me to his room.  My phone pinged, even without looking I knew who it was.  Karen had already messaged me maybe a dozen times, and I’d ignored them all.  I glanced down at the illuminated screen.

Karen: “Is everything ok?”

This time I felt that I had to reply.

Me: “Everything is fine.  I’m staying the night.”

There, I said it.  Maybe not out loud, but I had made a decision.  I’d crossed the line.

“Friend?” I looked up from the screen to see him staring at me from across the table.

“Yes, she wants to know if everything is okay.”

“And is it?”

“Yes.  Yes, it is.” The waiter arrived with the cognac and informed us that the bar would soon be closing.  All I could do was stare into Michael’s eyes, and watch as the young beautiful man who sat opposite me, reached across the table and held my hand.

“So,” he said, as he pushed back his chair and stood up, waiting for me to join him, “I guess you’ve decided?” I had.  In my head, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.  All I had to do was stand up.  His hand reached out before me, prompting me, but I had frozen.  Every nerve and fibre of my body wanted to take his hand, my brain screaming, “take it, take it.”

And I did.  Soon his hand was resting on the small of my back as he ushered me out of the bar and across the reception area.  I was relieved to discover that the desk was now unmanned, even more so when I felt his hand drop down to my bottom and stroke me through my dress as we climbed the stairs to the first floor.

The final emotional challenge of entering his hotel room had soon passed and I found myself in a large, dark, high-ceilinged room, dominated by a huge, king-size four-poster bed.  It really was like something from a bygone age; I could easily be the poor servant girl to Michael's privileged heir to the estate.

With his arms wrapped around my waist, he turned me to face a large full-length mirror that hung on the burgundy-coloured wall.  All the energy seemed to drain from me, as I stared blankly at my reflection.  

I watched as his hand slowly drew the zip down the back of my dress, letting it fall from my shoulders.  The black bra, which now appeared to be far more revealing than I first recalled, in fact bordering on the risqué, struggled to contain my heaving breasts as they bulged and threatened to spill out.

With the dress now lying in a pool around my feet, the feel of his hands first cupping my breasts through the silky material, then tracing a trail across my exposed cleavage, brought a shiver.  His touch was confident and assured, in contrast to Jason’s nervous first tentative steps.  I could feel my erect nipples straining against the soft cushion, begging to be released.  With his left-hand snaking downwards across my belly, there was a slight tug from behind as he skilfully unclipped my bra with his right.

I suddenly became painfully aware of the signs of age on my body.  The stretch marks on my breasts and stomach, a badge of honour that no amount of cocoa-butter could remove, became mortifyingly apparent to my eyes.  These lines had remained self-consciously hidden from the world since Rosie was born.  Only Jason and my doctor had ever seen them, as bikinis were replaced by one-piece swimsuits on the beach and swimming pool.

His fingers gently drew a line over them and along the elastic waistband of my knickers, threatening at times to enter, before exasperatedly moving on, continually touching my skin – my breasts, my bottom, my neck, my hair, my legs – it was a sensory overload.  My body ached for him to proceed further, feeling the juices from inside me leak into the fabric below.  His hot breath on my neck made me turn my head slightly, so his mouth touched my ear lobe.

“I’m going to make you cum,” he whispered, his voice so assured that I almost melted.  I truly believed him.  This wasn’t just a claim or a boast.  My knees buckled as I finally felt his hand slide inside and down between my legs.  The overwhelming relief that, after countless texts and emails, this was actually happening was immense.

The image reflected before me of my near-naked body, with this beautiful young man standing behind me, was entrancing.  His fingers moved in circles, never staying too long in one place.  First two of his fingers were inside me, before moving slowly around my labia, and then deliciously touching my desperately eager clitoris.

It sent a quiver through me, washed my skin with bliss, making the hairs on my arm stand up.  I noticed that my moan of disappointment as he again moved on, drew quite a wicked smile from the boy.  He was definitely taking a sadistic pleasure in prolonging my moment.

He took me, incredibly skilfully I must admit, to the very edge, before refusing me.  I could feel him pressing against me through the thin cotton that separated us.  Noticing his jeans lying in a heap on the floor by the bed, I reached behind me, feeling the hardness of his taut stomach under his t-shirt, before searching lower.  My quest was abruptly halted as his hand clenched mine, pinning it behind my back.

“Not yet,” he hissed, “but soon, I promise.” His hand was still moving in the same mechanical rotation but faster.  In the silence of the room, the obscene sound of my arousal, squelching as his fingers entered me became heightened.  Every touch on my clitoris now sent a pulse right through me, making me want to clench my legs together and trap his hand.

I was so close.  All thoughts of the real world, my family, my friends, and my life were now in the far distance.  I could feel it building from deep inside me as my breathing became laboured, and a low guttural moan emanated from within me.  Tugging at my hair, he pulled my head back, forcing me to stare at my contorted expression, reflected in the mirror.

“Yes?” he asked.  I stared back at him through half-closed, misty eyes.  I couldn’t reply.  My mouth opened but nothing came out.  “Yes,” he said again but this time it wasn’t a question.  My legs gave way from underneath me, shaking uncontrollably as my orgasm arrived.

Immediately his hand left me, leaving me confused and exasperated.  I was vaguely aware of a dull pop by my hip as he snapped the seam of my knickers with his hands.  Pushing me down on the bed, he held my still shaking legs open.  My attention was drawn to the torn piece of ruined underwear that was wrapped around my ankle as he swiftly pushed the head of his cock into me.

My hand automatically reached out, pushing on his stomach, to stop him from going any further, amazed by his size, but relishing the exquisite sensation as my stomach contracted and my orgasm paralysed me.

This time was more intense, coming from deep inside me and then flooding out along my nerve endings.  A confused, tortured groan left my lips as he stretched me to a point where I feared I might tear, but not wanting him to stop.

Pulling himself up and straightening his arms, he stared down, gradually grinding more of his thick cock into me, inch by inch.  As I adjusted to the invasion inside me, I wrapped my legs around his waist, inviting more of him in, until I felt a sharp exquisite spasm, signalling that he couldn’t go any deeper, consuming me with the acute sensation and realisation that this boy’s cock was touching a place inside me where no one had been before.

Again, a smile of self-satisfaction danced across his face as he noted my reaction and began to thrust harder.  In and out, almost withdrawing completely before driving back in, stretching me wider than I had been since giving birth.

This was exactly how I wanted it to be.  I didn’t want love.  I didn’t want him to make love to me.  I wanted it to hurt.  I wanted him to punish me for my betrayal.  From what Sofi had told me, I had assumed that he was going to be large.  And he was.  I could feel every raised vein on his cock as he entered me, dragging my clitoris along with every stroke, filling me completely.  Making me want more.

My mind was hopelessly trying to focus on what was happening, as wave after wave of an all-encompassing pleasure washed over me.  My arms grabbed him around his neck, holding on for dear life, as the relentless pounding of my neglected cunt continued.

With my lungs burning as I fought for breath, he dropped from my grasp, and I lay back on the cool white linen sheets, my heart pounding in my chest.  He bowed his head, scooping the erect nipple of my right breast into his mouth, teasing me with his tongue before biting down, making me yelp.

But it was a good pain, a welcome pain.  I don’t think that at any time in my life, had my body felt so alive, so attended to, so cherished or abused.

Lifting my head, I looked down between my two leaping breasts, and past my belly button, to try and see the organ that was the cause of my delight.  A tuft of blond, almost ginger pubic hair, ground itself into my pelvis, before I caught a fleeting glimpse of his huge cock, as it briefly emerged from inside me, wet and glistening from my juices, before plunging back in and driving me up towards the headboard.

I don’t know how long we had been in this bedroom; time appeared immaterial.  It could have been five minutes or five hours, I had no idea, but I was exhausted.  With my soaking wet hair plastered to my face, I could feel beads of perspiration, dripping down my neck, and running down between my shoulder blades.

Michael now lay on his back, his head perched up on two pillows, his hands kneading my sweaty tits as I rode his seemingly inexhaustible manhood.  From my handbag, I could hear the occasional and ignored ping from my phone.

There is a song from ‘Sweet Charity’ that unexplainably popped into my head at this moment, making me smile, ‘If my friends could see me now.’ I thought of all the mothers at the school gates, and how shocked they would be to see the quiet, shy, lonely widow right now.  Drenched in sweat and impaled on this huge cock.

“Fuck me, Claire,” he breathed, “fuck me till you cum.” His upward thrusts met my tired body.  My mind was torn between wanting him to cum so I could rest and hoping that he could last all night.  “I won’t cum till you do,” his boyish grin stared up at me, “test me, I won’t lose.” And I believed him.

Although I had already climaxed twice, there seemed to be no let-up.  I couldn't believe how he could last so long, convincing me that he’d taken something.  Grabbing me around my waist, he pulled me to him, so my breasts rested on his hairless chest, my hard nipples brushing against his skin.

Holding me in place, he began to fuck me hard and fast, his cock pistoning in and out of me with abandon, our thighs slapping together in a frenzied attack that soon pushed me over the edge.  I went as limp as a ragdoll with all the cells in my body alive, from the follicles in my hair to the toenails on my feet.

Fluid leaked from me, flowing down over his cock as he continued to fuck me through one orgasm and onto the next.  As one began to fade, another even stronger one took its place.  Unrestricted moans of ecstasy left me as all thoughts to my surroundings, and the other guests in the hotel were abandoned.

“Cum Michael,” I babbled, “please.  I want to feel your cum,” I implored, paying little attention to the possible consequences if he was to ejaculate inside my unprotected womb.  I so badly needed him to cum.  I wanted to reciprocate the pleasure that he had given me.  With all the strength that I had left, I rode him.

I raised myself up and then dropped my weight down on him again and again, willing to please him.  Suddenly his body stiffened, signalling to me that he was peaking, and for the first time, I was in control.  From previous experience, I knew I could toy with him, but I also knew that he wouldn’t last much longer.  My hands cupped my breasts, raising one to my lips and sucking the erect nipple.

“Is this what you want?” I purred, as I ground my pussy into him, the full size of his huge cock inside me, still sending further shivers through me, “do you like it? You can cum where you want, I don’t care.  You can cum inside me, over my tits, wherever.  I really don’t care, it’s your choice.”

Immediately, he lifted himself up, carrying me with him and, kneeling between my legs, confusing me as to his next move.  I stared intently as he masturbated for me, watching a tear of pre-cum drop before he moaned out loud and streams of his warm, sticky cum, spurted over me, the first hitting me just under the chin before others quickly followed landing incredibly accurately over my waiting breasts and belly.

In this brief moment, I had the opportunity to study this young man, unguarded and vulnerable.  At just twenty-five, he is the same age as my nephew, but I didn’t see in him, anything like Michael's amazing charisma and confidence.  Where did it come from?  Did having the knowledge of what was between his legs, and what it could do for a woman give him the edge over boys of his own age?  I don’t know, but I wanted more.

I didn’t want this to be just one night, I wanted to repeat this over and over again.  As the last of his spunk landed on my shaven pubic area, I knew I couldn't let him go.  I would have to share him, I was well aware of that, but I could cope with that for more nights like this.  I had never felt anything like it.

Sex with Jason had been good; we had loved and pleased each other, but this was something else.  I had never experienced this before.  With Jason we made love, but this was sex, this was fucking.  It had been at times brutal, but I loved it.

If they could see me now.

That little gang of mine.

This couldn’t be the end.  Could it?