It was without doubt the most embarrassing moment of my life. There I stood in a back street with a brown paper bag between my feet and its contents, five dirty mags, spread out on the pavement in front of me. Not only that, but Mrs Hotter was standing there staring, hand over mouth.

Mrs Hotter was her real name, by the way, which occasioned a great deal of sniggering among us boys-becoming-men, but that’s neither here nor there. Let me give you the background.

It was the day after my 18th birthday. I’d been waiting for this moment for a long time. If there hadn’t been celebrations on my actual birthday, I would have visited the place then. The place in question being one of the town’s three licensed sex shops. I’d seen dirty magazines of course, if only the kind where women posed on their own, and also a few softcore videos that a mate’s older brother happened to have in his possession, which didn’t show much either. But what I didn’t have was ready access to smut myself, this being ages before the internet.

Now that I was of age, I was legally entitled to purchase as much smut as I liked. I’d waited for the day, saved up for it even. I’d walked five times round the block trying to summon up the courage to finally enter. Inside I’d kept my eyes to myself, trying to block out the presence of the other men (and it was all men) inside. I’d picked out five magazines quickly, judging them entirely by their covers. To my surprise, and slight disappointment, the man behind the counter didn’t bother to ask me for proof of age.

The magazines were placed in a brown paper bag, which was handed to me with the top merely folded over. I turned and stuffed the magazines up my jacket and my hands in my pockets, just about managing to hold the bag in place. I turned down a side street, meaning to keep away from as many people as possible on the way home.

It was two streets further along that it happened. I didn’t see her, I was too busy keeping my eyes glued to the pavement, but Mrs Hotter certainly saw me. “Darren!” she called out loudly, even though she was practically on top of me.

Startled, I somehow lost my grip on the brown paper bag, which slipped from beneath my jacket. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it contrived to spill its contents onto the pavement in full view.

“M-M-Mrs Hotter,” I stammered, stooping to reclaim the items, hoping against hope that the woman hadn’t noticed what they were.

Fat chance. “My, my,” she said. “What have we here?”

This was bad on two counts. Firstly, Mrs Hotter was very friendly with my mum. They went to garden shows together, among other things. Secondly, Mrs Hotter had a son, Tommy, the same age as myself, whom I heartily detested. I couldn’t bear the thought that either should find out about my purchases; the former for obvious reasons, the latter because he would no doubt tell everyone I had to make do with magazines because I was useless with girls.

Mrs Hotter moved fast. Before I had time to do or say anything, she’d already gathered the magazines and was handing them to me. “Let me give you a lift home, Darren,” she said, as I stuffed the things back into the bag. “So we can talk.”

I imagined she was going to give me the standard talk about pornography being bad for you and masturbation giving you hairy palms and myopia, but I accepted anyway. Somehow I needed to convince Mrs Hotter of the need for this not to go any further.

We walked in silence, me with the paper bag back up my jacket. Mrs Hotter was parked up in a multi-storey car park. It was dim, but without much activity where her car was on the second floor. I desperately wanted to get her to agree not to tell anyone about this, and was prepared to grovel if need be. But I didn’t want to appear too desperate, so instead the first thing I said when the car doors were closed was, “I know it’s not for real, Mrs Hotter. What’s in these mags, like. I just…”

To my surprise Mrs Hotter smiled at me, saying calmly, “Well we won’t know what’s real and what’s not until we’ve taken a look, will we?”

Stunned, I merely unzipped my jacket and let Mrs Hotter take the paper bag from me. Still calm, she slid one of the magazines out, opening it at random.

I hadn’t been aware up until that point that an arcane system of censorship was in operation. Apparently it was OK for females to display everything they had to display, but the moment the male member came into contact with any orifice, an abstract blob obscured the point of contact. Quite what this was supposed to achieve I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. At that moment I was, however, still too preoccupied with the whole embarrassing situation with Mrs Hotter to consider this in any great detail.

Not that Mrs Hotter appeared too embarrassed. She flicked calmly through the mag before handing it to me and sliding another out of the paper bag. Still not knowing how to handle the situation, I put the magazine into the side pocket in the door, glancing uncertainly at the woman.

Mrs Hotter turned a few pages. “Yes, I’d say these are realistic enough,” she said.

“What I-I-I-I sup-p-p-p…” I stuttered.

Again Mrs Hotter smiled calmly. “I understand what you mean, Darren,” she said. “And a lot of women do feel uncomfortable with this kind of material.” When I didn’t respond, she continued. “Fortunately, I’m not that kind of woman. I understand that a young man has… needs.”

I was too preoccupied with my dread of any of this becoming public knowledge, and too inexperienced to catch the tone of her voice. “Does that mean… you won’t be telling anyone about… this?” I asked hopefully.

“I can keep a secret if you can keep a secret,” she said.

Too relieved to reflect on anything but the fact that Mrs Hotter seemed in no mood to sell me out, I merely stuttered, “Th-a-a-a-nks, Mrs Hotter.”

“Tell me, Darren. Do you have a girlfriend at present?”

The question took me aback, but I answered truthfully. “No, not at present, Mrs Hotter.” Chance would be a fine thing. The only thing more embarrassing than what had already happened would be to have to reveal to Mrs Hotter that I was in fact a virgin. I’d had girlfriends, but the most exciting thing that had happened with any of them was Caroline Potts allowing me to feel the fuzz of hair on her mound. Feel but not see, I hasten to add.

“Really?” Mrs Hotter said. “A handsome lad like yourself?”

This was weird, but then I was hardly an expert on what was and was not weird. Caught between the lukewarm Anglicanism of my upbringing and a smattering of feminist ideas picked up from the more politically inclined girls at school, relations between the sexes seemed barely navigable to me. Inexplicably, Mrs Hotter’s son (from her first marriage and therefore disappointingly not Tommy Hotter) seemed to have some magnet that drew the opposite sex to him with irresistible force, even though he was the closest thing to a Neanderthal not yet extinct.

“Well, you know…” I said, going for worldly and casual, hoping against hope that Mrs Hotter would fill in my vagueness with the aid of her own imagination, without my having to mire myself in a web of transparent lies.

Mrs Hotter turned a few more pages in the magazine in silence. I got the feeling that she was considering something. My mind was slowly beginning to click into gear. What was it Mrs Hotter had said? “I can keep a secret if you can keep a secret.”

As Mrs Hotter turned yet more pages I worked hard to summon up the courage. “What is it then?” I said.

The woman angled her head inquisitively.

“Your secret,” I said.

Mrs Hotter smiled, as if she was pleased with me for some reason. I liked that. She turned a few more pages in silence. Then she said, “You can keep a secret?”

“Of course,” I said. Then, because I was feeling a little bolder. “It seems only fair.”

“Mutually Assured Destruction,” Mrs Hotter murmured, turning another page.

“Or just a pact,” I said.

The woman didn’t answer, not at once. She turned another page or two and shifted in her seat. Finally she said slowly, “Darren, when I said a lot of women feel uncomfortable with this kind of material, I was most definitely not including myself.” She turned a page. “In fact I get just as turned on by looking at this as you do.”

I found this hard to believe. It was completely at odds with how I’d somehow come to believe men and women were programmed. Nothing anyone had told me suggested that women liked to look at this kind of thing, and my own limited experience had taught me nothing except that getting further than a feel of that fuzz of hair was a feat of endurance that might have taxed the most intrepid explorer.

When I said nothing, Mrs Hotter went on, “It seems to be what I have left these days. Mr Hotter doesn’t show much interest in me, unfortunately. And a woman has needs, Darren, just as you do.”

This also contradicted the image I’d formed in my head, which was that even in marriage, sex was something wives let their husbands indulge in on the rare occasion migraine didn’t intervene. That Mr Hotter apparently didn’t have the hots for Mrs Hotter seemed peculiar.

As I’ve already intimated, more than a few jokes did the rounds based on her name and the fact that she was the curviest mum on the block. Not that I could see her curves now, since she still had her coat done up. But I was paying attention to her long, blonde hair, bright blue, sorrow-tinged eyes, and rose red lips.

Before I knew it, I was saying, “I find that hard to believe, Mrs Hotter.” Then I hoped she didn’t think I meant it hard to imagine she had needs, though in some ways I did.

She turned to me. “You’re very sweet, Darren.” I didn’t care for that. It was what girls said when they liked you, but not enough to let you actually do anything. “Can I trust you completely?”

Instinctively I understood that the more Mrs Hotter confided in me, the less danger there was of her spilling the beans about my filthy purchases. “Yes, of course, Mrs Hotter.”

“Hold this!” she said, handing me the magazine she had open, along with the paper bag with the remainder of the magazines.

I took them from her, still not understanding quite where she was going with all this. She glanced at the wing mirrors, then craned her neck like a spy on a mission, but we were parked up against one of the far walls, and it was only if someone came to collect the cars parked on either side of us that anybody might see. Then she began to unbutton her coat.

As inexperienced as I was, I understood that something was happening; I just didn’t know quite what to do. Still, I was happy enough that undoing her coat and shrugging it off her shoulders revealed the curve of Mrs Hotter’s shapely bosom. A white blouse fit nice and tight across her breasts. There was no way I could stop myself from staring, but then the woman hardly seemed to disapprove of my gaze.

On the contrary, she proceeded to blow my mind. Coat unbuttoned, she shifted position. Today she was wearing jeans. I’d seen her in jeans many times, and knew how nice and snug they fit round her bum. But now she dealt with the button in an instant before pulling the zip down. I must have looked a right idiot, completely nonplussed by what this gorgeous woman was doing. I could spy black where the jeans opened up. It looked like expensive underwear. “Hand me another magazine, please,” Mrs Hotter said.

I did as the woman said. She opened it and propped it up against the steering wheel. “Aren’t you going to have a look at your new purchases?” she said.

My lips moved before I had time to think. “I’m too busy looking at you, Mrs Hotter.”

As soon as I’d said it, I was shit scared I’d said too much, but the woman just smiled. “You certainly know what a woman wants to hear, Darren,” she said. Really? It would be the first time in my life, but there was no time to consider this, because Mrs Hotter was reaching across, her hand landing on my crotch, giving a little squeeze.

Do I need to tell you that my cock had hardly remained dormant in my jeans? I’d tried to get Emily Ashott to rub me through my clothing once, but she’d pulled her hand away and I’d never tried it with anyone again. Now Mrs Hotter was massaging my erection like it was the most natural thing in the world. The situation was outlandish enough, sitting here in her car in the multi-storey, for me never to have entertained such an idea, even in my most fevered fantasies.

Then she pulled her hand away. I wondered if I’d done something wrong, though strictly speaking I hadn’t done anything. Only for a split second though, because she turned a page in the magazine, holding it in place against the steering-wheel as her right hand slid inside the hem of her knickers. I watched in amazement as she pushed her hand further down. Then I heard it, the most delicious sound I’d ever heard a woman utter. “Aaaaaaaah!” Even with my limited experience, I understood that whatever Mrs Hotter wanted, she was going to follow it through to the end.

“Don’t you want to…?” Mrs Hotter said, replacing the missing words with an unmistakable gesture with her left hand. The magazine dropped into her lap, and she pushed it back against the steering wheel.

This was unbelievable. Nothing in my experience suggested that any woman was keen to see my… thing; far less watch me masturbate. But Mrs Hotter did, and as I watched her hand move where I couldn’t see, but imagine very well, I unzipped to liberate my throbbing cock. Even though I couldn’t see anything of Mrs Hotter – not the bits a randy boy of 18 wants to see at any rate – she provided the sexiest sight I’d ever experienced. I pulled the foreskin back, praying that I’d be able to prolong my erection the way I’d learned to during endless dates with my right hand and a faintly disgusting sock.

”Mmmm, if the girls knew what you’re packing, they’d never leave you alone,” Mrs Hotter said. Maybe she was just flattering me, but right then I was all too ready to believe her. She moaned again – “Aaaaaaaah!” – her hand moving, and my cock twitched, a dribble of pre-cum oozing out.

Mrs Hotter saw, of course she did. “Oh Darren, is that the effect I have on you?”

What I was I supposed to say? “You’re incredibly sexy, Mrs Hotter.”

The woman smiled, turning a page in the magazine, her hand still working inside her knickers. “Sexy enough to feature in one of your magazines?” she asked.

Would she want to? I didn’t know. My whole world was being turned upside down. “Sexier,” I said.

“Mmmm,” Mrs Hotter responded. The issue of pre-cum had relieved some of the immediate tension, and I risked the embarrassment of premature ejaculation, grasping my erection between fingers and thumb and moving my hand up and down.

Mrs Hotter’s hand continued to move. I wished I could see more. The blouse was straining across her bosom, and with my overheated mind I fancied I could actually see her nipples becoming more engorged with every passing second. She turned a few more pages, and I watched her, stimulating myself as gently as I could, so as to not have an accident. “Aaaaaaah!” Mrs Hotter moaned again. Then she sighed like nothing I’d ever heard before.

There was more page turning, more moaning, more of Mrs Hotter’s hand moving while I tried with all my might to contain my excitement. “Oh, I like the look of that!” she breathed at one point, I glanced at the magazine, to see what she found so titillating, but maybe it wasn’t the magazine she was referring to, because suddenly the mag dropped into her lap as she reached out her left hand.

Instinctively I understood exactly what the deal was here. I moved my hand away, allowing Mrs Hotter to grab hold of my erection. By some miracle I managed to avoid disaster. All that solitary practice in my room ensured that I was able to allow just the one contraction, a dribble of liquid, as Mrs Hotter folded her fingers round me.

“Aaaaaaah! Yes!” Mrs Hotter exclaimed. This was all new to me, and I wasn’t sure if she was responding to my near accident. But then the woman began to moan more intensely. I heard something for the first time, the sound of moist vagina. It took me completely by surprise, but instinctively I felt I’d never heard anything quite so delicious. The sound was, however, soon drowned out by Mrs Hotter’s moans.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” she exclaimed. The hand in her panties was working overtime, her body tensing violently, seizing several times over right there in the driver’s seat. No way could I withstand anything now. I would have come spontaneously even if Mrs Hotter’s fingers hadn’t been clamped round my cock. My head exploded as I shed my load, jets of cum spurting out of me as Mrs Hotter continued to spasm and exclaim “Yes! Yes!”

There was a bit of a mess, but Mrs Hotter was very good about it, once she’d regained her composure. “Don’t worry about the car,” she said. “I’ll have it cleaned on the way home.”

Most of the mess had in any case gone all over my jacket and jeans. I had no idea how I was going to sneak in the house without my mum or dad or both seeing that. Somehow I managed it, though, flopping on the bed in my room, still completely blown away by the way Mrs Hotter had licked her hand clean of the ejaculate that had dribbled onto her fingers.

I enjoyed flicking through the magazines, of course I did. But after sitting so close to Mrs Hotter and feeling her hand round my erection as I ejaculated, the faces of the women in the pictures seemed to adopt her features. For a couple of evenings I wanked myself silly every night imagining myself in the censored scenarios with Mrs Hotter. It was pretty standard fare by modern standards, but to my impressionable young mind it was dynamite. Besides, you can imagine how good it felt remembering that moment with Mrs Hotter whenever her son was being a complete arsehole. I kept my side of the bargain, though, even though I longed to get my own back by telling everyone how his mum had jacked me off.

Mrs Hotter came round to see my mum a couple of days after the little session in the multi storey, giving me a wink which was equal parts seduction and co-conspiracy. I hardly believed for a second that anything more would happen. As far as I was concerned, what had happened was a one-off, our little secret. Before mobile phones, conducting a clandestine affair was far from easy, and I had no idea how to get Mrs Hotter alone for long enough to speak to her, far less anything more.

What puny hopes I harboured had pretty much evaporated when, two months later, events played into my hands.

TBC