“For God’s sake, Peter. Couldn’t you turn up on time just once? You know Geoffrey’s away and  we’re short-staffed at the best of times.”

It was Mrs. Turner doing the berating and I was the Peter who was being berated. I was a waiter in a small seaside hotel, having breezed into town for the summer and chanced upon this job. It required little in the way of talent or skill, but I think she had hired me because I was polite and well-spoken, neither of which I could take much credit for. You get that sort of thing from your parents and your upbringing.

“Sorry,” I mumbled as she thrust two plates of bacon and eggs into my hands.

“Table seven,” she said.

Mrs. Turner must have been in her late forties. She was tall and rather stout, with pale, milky skin and blonde hair loosely permed. Now that I think of it, she had nice big breasts and her body in general was tidy, but I was twenty-one at the time and it was the waitresses who interested me, not the boss.

Only the previous evening I had seduced a new one, Marlene, on the floor of the staff hut. The walls were thin, the windows uncurtained and the door unlocked, but one thing had led to another and we had ended up fucking there and then. I was now hoping she hadn’t read too much into it, because as far as I was concerned it had just been something instinctive, something to do on a quiet night. Marlene was nice enough but a bit of a country bumpkin and not much of a conversationalist.

Mrs. Turner’s daughter, Heather, worked there too, as a kind of trainee manager, being groomed to take over when Mrs. T and Geoffrey packed it in. They used to throw Heather and me together as if hoping we might click. Maybe they thought I’d make a good son-in-law, and in truth I wouldn’t have minded shagging Heather if it weren’t for the fact that she was the boss’s daughter and the situation was potentially complicated.

When breakfast was done – there were only about a dozen guests, as it was late summer and things were winding down – I set up the dining room for dinner. It was a half day for me, but I did the job properly for the benefit of my colleagues who would be doing the honours that night.

At around eleven o’clock I was just about finished when Mrs. T stuck her head around the door. She had calmed down now and was actually smiling, which was a rare event.

“Got a job for you this afternoon,” she said. “I know it’s your half day but if you’re not busy there’s something I need a hand with at the house. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” I said. There was nothing much to do in the town anyway, so I would only be in my attic room down the road, listening to music. Maybe she was setting me up with Heather. It was certainly unusual to be summoned to Turner Towers, up in the hills outside town.

We drove there in her old estate car, a drably functional vehicle that summed up the Turners’ attitude to life: they were doing what needed to be done to get through life, saving a bit and aiming to retire early enough to enjoy it. Heather had told me that. She didn’t seem to realize she would probably do exactly the same thing, and that was another thing that worried me about her, that she had me penciled in for a role.

When we arrived at the house, Heather’s Mini was parked outside. She lived there, of course. You wouldn’t expect anything else.

What they needed my help with was sawing a load of logs for the winter. Geoffrey’s back wasn’t up to it and anyway, he had gone to visit his mother for a few days. Me? I was young and fit. And yes, I wanted to make a good impression, so I knocked the logs off in less than an hour, out there in the back garden with my shirt off, like a gamekeeper helping out at the manor.

I saw both the women peeking through windows occasionally as I labored. When they saw I had finished, Heather called me in for lunch. I washed my hands and would have liked a shower, but there didn’t seem to be time. Heather had made vegetable soup, which was just the job, and Mrs. T took a bottle of white wine from the fridge and asked me to open it, handing me a chrome corkscrew where you had to flip something over to work it.

“I don’t know how you do it,” she said, exasperated. “Geoffrey gets it, eventually.”

As luck would have it I had used one of these before and it was easy enough when you knew how. Mrs. T and I had a couple of glasses each but Heather abstained, as she put it, because she was on duty for the rest of the day. Mrs. T remembered some more logs in the shed, so when Heather drove off, I stayed there and did some more sawing.

“I’m a right slave driver, aren’t I?” Mrs. Turner laughed, handing me another glass of wine when I eventually returned to the house. “God, you’re sweating! Would you like to have a shower?”

She showed me the en-suite bathroom, the one with a shower, just off the marital bedroom, which was neat and tidy and rather pink. I stripped off before wondering where the towels were. She opened the door six inches and brandished one.

“You might be needing this,” she said, picking up my discarded shirt and adding, “I’ll give this a quick wash.” I had been wearing it for the afternoon log session.

I had a long, warm shower and enjoyed the feminine accoutrements the room contained. Shower gel called Vagisil – I wasn’t sure how to pronounce it and it was only chemicals and plastic, but it suggested naked women and intimate parts.

Anyway, Heather had gone, so that wasn’t on the menu after all.

When I went back into the bedroom Mrs. Turner was sitting on the little round stool in front of her dressing table.

“Think I’ll have one too,” she said. “Make yourself at home.” She nodded to an armchair on the other side of the bed. Strange, I thought. Maybe she didn’t want me roaming the house, snooping. Whatever the reason, I did as I was told and sat back in the chair.

When the door opened I didn’t look up straightaway because I didn’t want her to think I’d been watching, but when I did look up I saw she was wearing a white bathrobe, with a towel like a turban on her head. Her cheeks were flushed and I could smell the shower gel. Vagisil for her silky vagina. Ladies’ shower gel and water all over her, in all her folds and crevices and holes, running down her body from the innocent parts through the valley of sin and down her legs.

Her hair was nearly dry, I saw as she took the towel off and shook her head.

“Excuse me,” she said, but didn’t elaborate. Then she walked quickly into the kitchen and returned with the wine glasses. Taking a sip of hers and putting it down, she sat on the bed and patted it, inviting me. I sat next to her.

“I know I’m not very popular,” she began. “I get things done and Geoffrey keeps people happy. It works. But sometimes I feel nobody really knows me.”

“Even your husband?” I asked.

“Even him,” she said sadly. “Do you know he’s the only man I have ever had… um ever had, I suppose. And I’m his only female.”

“Well isn’t that quite nice in a way?”

“No, Peter, I know what you mean, but it’s a terrible waste. I’m not a bad looking woman, am I? I know, you’ve probably never even thought about it. I’m just Mrs. Turner, the old dragon you work for. But look…” She pulled her left breast out. “See? I’ve got tits.” She paused for me to think about it.

“Do you like my breasts, Peter? They’re the feature I like most about myself. Do you want to touch them?” She pulled the bathrobe wide, so her chest and stomach were exposed, and I took the left breast in my hand and squeezed it gently.

“You’re feeling me like a fruit,” she laughed indignantly. I took the nipple between my fingers and teased it.

“Suck it,” she said, and I lowered my head and took the nipple in my mouth, while my other hand found her right breast and held it firmly.

“That’s better,” she sighed, but broke free and stood up. She wrenched the bathrobe off and tossed it onto the chair.

“See?” she said. “The whole package. Just like the waitresses and chambermaids. Only no one is interested in Mrs. Turner.”

Her hand worked its way down her stomach and into her abundant black pubic hair. Her body was generously upholstered but not fat, and the milky skin was smooth and clean.

“Take your clothes off, Peter,” she urged. “You’re making me feel uncomfortable.”

 I slipped my jeans off and , turning my back to her, slid my underpants down and off. When I turned to face her, her eyes roamed my body quickly before settling on my erection.

“My,” she said. “That’s nice.”

She took my cock in her hand, pleased that she had caused this hardness. She drew me to her and we kissed. Like this, naked and embracing, I forgot who she was and she became just a woman I was about to fuck.

“I want you to lick me,” she said quietly. “Oral sex. Everybody else is having it and I’ve never had the pleasure.”

She lay on her back and spread her legs. I gazed into her bushy crotch at the little curly lips of her pussy. I knelt on the bed and got my face down to her fragrant epicenter. I kissed her labia and she shuddered. I pulled them apart and thrust my tongue into her, then out again and licked up and won her slit, before locating her clitoris and licking and sucking it a she bucked excitedly beneath me.

“God yes,” she moaned. “Now my back. Start at my neck and work down.”

She turned over and I did as instructed. I kissed her neck and licked down her spine, pausing to entertain her under her arms. Then back to the knobbly central road and down, down, down. When I reached her mountainous region I hesitated, but she wriggled her encouragement. I kissed her buttocks and licked the crease below one, which led between her legs. On this road I found her arse.

Again I hesitated and again she wriggled her consent. I slid my tongue into the tawny hollow and smelled her clean but slightly arsey aroma. I licked her there and liked it. So did she.

“God you’re naughty,” she said breathlessly. “Again.”

I licked her bottom with increasing confidence and mutual enjoyment as she squirmed with delight.

“Now you’re not going to fuck me there," she pointed out. “But I want you on top of me, face to face.”

We rearranged ourselves so I was on top and my thighs were between hers. I felt her pussy and found it wet and expectant. My cock made its way forwards and up, up, up into her delectable liquid slide. At this point I became very aware of who this was, but she was in my hands, my control. The bossy woman had been overtaken by lust and its fickle companion, love, and at that moment we were lovers, no more, no less. I pumped my cock up and down inside her and she began to make little girly squealy noises. My hand found her arse and I poked a finger into her. She squealed again.

Then she drew in her stomach and slipped her hand between us until she held my balls, gently and proudly.

“I want you to come,” she said. “Don’t worry about me – I’ll come when you do.” I didn’t know how someone with so little experience could be so sure about that, but as my orgasm took over me and ground my cock into her cunt and our pubic bones together, she gave a sort of shout of triumph and proceeded to shake violently, squeezing my buttocks and rolling her head from side to side.

“Aaahh, aahhh, aahhh!” she said as she relaxed.

My orgasm completed its delivery of semen into my employer’s vagina and I lay beside her.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “this has nothing to do with work and anyway, we’re closing in two weeks. But thank you for treating me like a woman.”

“You’re a lovely woman,” I said gallantly. “You’re very sexy really.”

“Your spunk is trickling down into my arse,” she said, enjoying he own crudeness. “Let’s wait a while and have a drink and see if we have a part two.”