I had only just turned seven when Mum and Dad split up. He'd told her one night that he was going to set up home with his secretary (the usual scenario: middle-aged man trades in spouse for a younger, sportier model). Mum was devastated and grappled with acute depression for months, but managed to hold down her job, as a senior supervisor at our local supermarket. It was really her tenacity which kept our heads above water.
Dad never came round to visit us, even though he only lived 80 miles away with his Disco Queen (as Mum called her). Just sent me a birthday card each year, with a book gift voucher inside. Though even that stopped when I was 18. Mum never showed any interest in men again.
Most of the guys at college were terribly immature and shallow and I began to think that perhaps I'd unwittingly absorbed Mum's 'man phobia'. I turned down all the offers (of which there were plenty), until word got round that I was probably a dyke. Who was I to disabuse these jerks? At least it stopped them pestering me. But sapphic play certainly wasn't my scene. Admittedly, I'd often looked longingly at some of the shaven pussies I caught sight of in the gym's changing rooms. But it was more because I wanted a smooth snatch too (I still had a trimmed bush), rather than drooling over the delights of 'eating' any of my college girlfriends.
Then one sunny Spring afternoon everything changed. I'd cut a class to go into town to pick up some groceries for Mum and on the way back, I decided to cash in my parsimonious father's birthday gift token at our local indie bookshop. I was heavily into mildly-erotic vampiric romps, where the girl vampire vanquishes the vile Visigoths from outer space. The shop had a display of my favourite author's latest title.
As I was leafing through the opening chapter, I sensed the presence of someone standing beside me: a middle-aged man, who I'd always taken to be the bookshop's owner, but had never spoken to.
"Hi! I see you're into Velda Samson."
"Yes, I love her stuff. I've read them all."
"We only took delivery of that one this morning."
"Do you work here, then?"
"For my sins, I own the place. I'm Tony. Tony Metcalf." The tall, dark-haired proprietor before me was clean-cut, with a nice trim figure, clad in expensive casual wear. I recognised his Cuba aftershave, a sexy mix of tobacco smoke and rum cocktails. Mum had once bought it for Dad one Christmas.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Samantha."
"Hi Samantha. Is there anything else I can show you?"
"No thanks, Tony. I'll just take this one." I handed over Dad's voucher.
"Let me wrap it up for you." So saying, he took the book from me and went over to the counter to bag it up, popping a receipt inside. As he handed me my package, he said: "Listen, we close in 10 minutes. Would you fancy coming to the wine bar across the street for a drink?" He gave me a lovely smile.
Butterflies started flapping in my stomach. The offer, though innocent enough, was clearly an opening gambit to a flirtation. Possibly even an affair. And this good-looking guy was at least 20 years older than me!
"Er, well that's very sweet of you (I instantly regretted the use of the word 'sweet', thinking: 'why the fuck didn't you say "kind" you silly cow?'), but you see I have to get these groceries home for Mum. She's cooking us a paella. Special celebration."
"I see. May I ask what you're celebrating?"
"My birthday. I'm 18." (There, I'd said it. Laid down a clearly-visible marker. But was I warning him off or egging him on?)
"Many happy returns, Samantha. Then maybe we could take that drink another time?" (He wasn't going to be deterred.)
"That would be nice. I'd like that." (Would I? Fucking hell, yes I would! I'd really like to flirt with an older man!) "And please call me Sam?"
"Then why not call by here on Friday... Sam?" (I loved the embarrassed hesitation before the first use of my shortened name. It was as if I'd given him a password.) "I stay open until 7.00pm, but if we went over to the Bar Italia, we could have that glass of wine I suggested and maybe a bite to eat too? They do superb deep-pan pizzas."
"Yeah, so I've heard. Friday would be good for me. Mum always has to work late and so I usually finish up snacking on crisps, watching rubbish on TV." I fluttered my eyelashes a little as a signal that, as far as I was concerned, the affair had just been 'launched', "Yes... I'd like that very much, Tony."
"Great! That's a date then. I'll see you on Friday. Let's meet over there, shall we - say around 7.15pm?"
I left that bookshop feeling slightly heady. His final use of 'date' seemed a confirmation that my bookseller had designs. Who was I to deter him? I felt a divine wetness seeping from my slit, wetting my thighs, as I walked home.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
For my first assignation with quiet, bookish Tony, I'd decided that I should dress 'on the cusp', somewhere between an out-an-out slutty harlot (like that bitch who'd seduced my Dad) and some demure mid-American Vestal Virgin, who has Virgil's Aenead for her bedside reading. Though I say it myself, my chosen Bar Italia outfit was stunning.
I'm fortunate to have small, tightly-formed breasts which don't require artificial support, and I'm also endowed with extra-large puffie nipples. This mammary combination, sitting beneath a semi-transparent patterned midnight blue silk blouse, tied at the front, would be very alluring. My tanned midriff was bare, exposing my diamond navel stud. Below, my green silk pantaloons showed off my slim legs, with their ribbon-tied ends finishing above my ankles. On my feet, I wore Mum's emerald green suede pumps.
When I nervously entered, the Bar Italia was still quiet (the raucous late-night throng had yet to arrive). Proprietor Mario ushered me to a candle-lit corner table. He looked down appreciatively at my outfit as he murmured, "Senior Tony will be joining you shortly, signora. Here is a glass of Prosecco, with the compliments of the house."
Tony appeared at my side a few minutes later and placed a hand lightly on my shoulder. I thought (hoped) that he would lean forward a peck me on the cheek, but instead he took the seat opposite me at the table. He gave me that lovely smile. "Hi, Sam. May I say, you look simply gorgeous." Mario brought him a glass of sparkling wine.
"Not over the top?"
"Far from it. I think your outfit is extremely well-chosen, young lady."
"Why thank you, kind sir." I raised my glass. "Cheers!"
"Cheers. Let's get the ordering out of the way, shall we? Then we can chat." Mario approached with his order pad at the ready.
Tony effectively took over, ordering for us both. I admired his confident style and his command of the Italian language. He folded the menu card and handed it back to the proprietor, saying, "And we'll have a bottle of the vintage Chianti, when you're ready."
All the while, my naughty mind had been fast-forwarding to what might happen after the meal.