Paul had to go to London for a few days; he had meetings in Whitehall, all very hush-hush. I don’t ask, and he doesn’t say. Frankly, I don’t really care. When I ran my own consultancy, I had to undergo security vetting, which meant there were many secrets I couldn't share with him. Now, I just do occasional work for the government, all very quiet, all very hush-hush.

“Can you pop in on Dad while I am away?” Paul asked. “I worry about him now that Mum is gone.”

“Of course I will, baby,” I said. I kissed Paul goodbye as I dropped him off at the railway station. The train was the only sensible option when travelling to London; you could get the tube or taxis to anywhere that you needed to go, or even just grab a bus. I watched as he hurried off, towing his trolley case behind him. I noticed a traffic warden heading my way, took one last look at my husband, made a quick check in the mirror, and was gone.

The traffic warden smiled and went about his business. I have no problem with traffic wardens; they are just doing a job, earning a crust. It serves me right if I get a ticket for parking where I shouldn’t, such as on the double yellow lines on the approach to the railway station. This time I got away with it.

Phil is Paul’s dad; Moira, his wife and Paul’s mum, passed away just over a year ago. Phil was quite sanguine, which surprised me; they had been together almost all their lives. I would have been devastated, but Phil just accepted it. “She is at peace now,” he had said after the funeral, “and so must I be.”

I decided that I would pop in and see him on my way home; I could get him any shopping that he needed, although he was quite adept at supermarket shopping online. It wouldn’t hurt to check. A quick journey around the ring road and I was pulling onto his driveway. He didn’t drive anymore; he shopped from home and used Uber if he needed to go somewhere. Occasionally he would ask Paul, but that was rare; usually he just managed.

I rang the doorbell and opened the door.

“Only me, Phil,” I called as I walked in. “Are you decent?”

“In the kitchen, Mica,” he called. I shut the door behind me and headed towards the kitchen. There he was, dressed and just standing at the sink doing some washing up. I don’t think I ever saw him when he wasn’t properly dressed. Even when he had the flu and was laid up in bed, he wore tightly buttoned pyjamas. “Standards, Mica,” he had said.

I walked over to him and gave him a hug, stepping back and smiling.

“I was passing,” I lied. “Paul is in London, and I thought I should pop in and see if there was anything I could do to help, a spot of laundry, or some shopping perhaps.”

“Oh, bless you, Mica, but I have everything under control. I have to do Moira’s chores now as well as my own; it keeps me busy.”

“Okay, that’s fine, Phil; I just thought I would see.”

“That is very nice of you, Mica. Coffee?”

“Please, yes.”

I stood back, leaning against his kitchen table as he filled the water tank of his coffee machine. He put two glass-walled mugs under the spout and pressed some buttons. Soon there was the sound of grinding beans and then that wonderful aroma of fresh coffee. He put some milk in a stainless-steel mug and steamed it, pouring it over the top of the coffee.

Passing a mug to me, he said, “Let’s go and sit in the sitting room.”

I followed him into his front room. He stood and waited for me to sit, and then he sat next to me on the sofa. It wasn’t the smallest of sofas, and so there was a little room between us; we were not crammed together.

“How have you been, then, Phil? Keeping yourself busy?”

“Well, I suppose. Obviously there isn’t that much to do, just me rattling around the place, but, well, beds still need to be laundered, as do clothes. I try to make myself at least one hot meal a day, and so that helps fill time. It is just, well, you know, lonely.”

“I can imagine it is Phil,” I said, giving his leg a small squeeze, “especially as you and Moira were together for so long.”

“Quite. I do envy Paul.”

“Oh?”

“Well yes, you are there. He doesn’t simply have his hand for company.”

I almost spat my coffee out. I had sort of expected he would be past all that.

“Well, at least things are still working,” I said. I mean, what else could I say?

“Not a lot of point on my own,” Phil said.

“Have you thought about a dating site?”

“It is all on computers these days. The phone screen is too small for me to see, and the computer is just too complicated. I just see to myself; that is all I can do.”

I took a sip of coffee; I wasn’t really sure what I could do, to be honest. My eyes, stupidly and with a mind of their own, glanced at his lap. It looked to me as if he had a bulge. Yes, good old Phil seemed to be in working order.

“I mean,” he said, his head turned, looking at me, “it is not as if there is anyone else that could help, is there?”

Well, that was as open a question as there could be.

“What are you saying, Phil?” I wasn’t going to assume anything; I could have completely misunderstood the situation.

“Well,” he paused and then turned slightly on the sofa. “Your husband is away. I am in need; no one would know.”

“We would know. How could I face your son, my husband, when he came back from London?”

“The same as you always face him, you don’t get a visible stigma on your face, you know. No one would know, no one could know, only us, and it would be our secret.”

“What would be our secret, Phil? Spell it out exactly; let there be no mistake, no confusion.”

He took my hand and placed it on his crotch. There was no mistake, no confusion. Under the fabric of his trousers was a dick, a hard dick. His other hand reached up and cupped my breast, squeezing slightly, finger and thumb finding my nipple. I felt a tremor run through me.

“I see. You want us to have sex, Phil, to go to your bedroom and do the deed, and then for me to go home as if nothing had happened.”

He squeezed my breast again and then let go. He stood up and faced me, holding out his hand.

“Yes,” he said, “that is exactly what I want.”

I held my hand up, and he helped me to my feet; it seemed I was complicit. I followed him through the door and up the stairs to his bedroom. Immaculately tidy, the bed was made. There were no standards dropped here simply because he lived alone.  He turned and began to unbutton his shirt, his eyes on mine as I reached behind me to undo the catch on my dress.

When he undid the lowest button, he undid the belt of his trousers and pulled his shirt out and then off. He wasn’t exactly buff, but neither was he saggy or overweight. He pushed his trousers down and stepped out of them. He folded them neatly and put them on his chair. Sitting on the bed, he pulled his socks off and added them to the chair. He was now just in his boxers, his arousal very apparent.

I had folded my dress over what would have been Moira’s chair; I was standing in a bra and knickers. My underwear didn’t match. I was wearing blue knickers and a white bra, and I hadn’t expected to show my underwear to anyone today; I had prioritised function over aesthetics. I undid my bra; Phil was the first man since my husband to see my breasts in more years than I could remember. I had fooled around a little at university, but then I met Paul, and I became a one-man girl. No more fooling with anyone apart from my boyfriend, my very serious boyfriend.

Phil pushed his boxers down, and for the first time, I saw his dick. I had expected Phil's dick to look similar to Paul's. I could not have been more wrong; I had to suppress a gasp. Phil’s dick wasn’t as thick as Paul’s, but it must have been twice as long. My God, there is no way it would fit inside me. Nervously now, I pulled my knickers off and added them to the pile on my chair.

I walked over to the bed and pulled the covers back, Phil doing the same on his side. I could not take my eyes off his dick bouncing around as he moved. We both got onto the bed; I was a little unsure what to do next. I knew physically what to do, of course, but I was in a position outside of my comfort zone. Did he just want a shag, a hand job, or, heaven forbid, a blow job? That dick would reach my stomach; I didn’t know.

I rolled onto my side and reached down, my hand easily going around his dick. Phil gasped with pleasure.

“God, yes, Mica, it has been so long.”

Unfortunate choice of words. His dick was easily more than twice the width of my palm, and I knew for sure that I wasn’t that big inside. I was less than six inches in depth; I knew that. Once, many years ago, on a girl’s night out, we had all used a straw to measure and compare our fanny depths. It had surprised all of us to discover that we were nearly all around six inches deep.

“Girth, not length, girls,” Jenny had said, laughing as we poured more Cosmopolitans down our necks. Gosh, that had been a long time ago, and now I was faced with a dick that was approaching twice my depth. I began moving my hand up and down, watching his foreskin as it flowed over the rim of his glans. I loved watching Paul’s dick when I did that to him; how his skin almost flowed like a liquid, deforming and stretching over the rim, beads of moisture forming at the hole in the end.

It was the same here; Phil’s skin flowed, rolling over his rim, little drops of white escaping from the end of his dick. I leant forward and down and licked the end of his dick, my movement causing Phil to jerk as if startled. I opened my mouth and surrounded him and sank my mouth down. Passed my tonsils, into my throat and further. He was blocking my air, and still he kept going. It seemed to take an age to reverse to the point where I could breathe. Phil, I knew, could easily shag my throat, something that Paul couldn’t because of his girth.

I began to move my mouth faster, his dick sliding deeper down my throat, feeling his rim as it scraped my inside, my tongue flattened against my mouth by his shaft. Phil began moving his hips, humping me as I shagged him with my mouth. I began to hope that perhaps he would be satisfied with finishing in my mouth; I really wasn’t sure I wanted a dick as long as his in my fanny. In truth, I was still unsure about having any dick in my fanny that wasn’t attached to my husband.

I eased my mouth away from his dick, my throat relieved to be free again. I lay back and looked at Phil; he had a sort of smile across his face, not a smirk—no, that would have been unkind—but definitely a satisfied look in his expression. He reached across and ran a finger along the top of my crease.

“No hair,” he said, “nice.”

I wondered if Moira had shaved her fanny, not that it mattered. His finger eased past my lips and slid down to my valley, easily sliding along, my labia folding around his finger as it moved. I was, it seemed, very wet. A second finger joined the first, and I eased my hips apart, relaxing back into the mattress. I closed my eyes and just enjoyed the sensations; I could imagine it was Paul, not his father.

He found my nubbin and pressed at it, his fingernail gently scraping across it, sending sparks of electricity through me. My fanny spasmed and clamped, and my hips lifted slightly; I was enjoying this far too much. His fingers glided through my valley and located my entrance. I gasped as he circled around it, and then I gasped again as his fingers pushed inside and penetrated my opening.

“Ah, Phil,” I gasped as his fingers moved inside me. He widened them, stretching me sideways, and then he made a come-here motion, stretching me upwards. I had no complaints with Paul’s foreplay; it worked, and it always got me going. Yes, Phil was somehow different. My breath was fast; I was gasping. My buttocks were clenching, and I felt the first jolts of electricity as they left my crotch.

I was almost ashamed. I had resolved to let him do the physical deed and to take no notice. I was going to coo and gasp at the appropriate points. I had no intention of becoming part of it; my intentions failed. I was gasping, but not to make Phil feel good. No, I was gasping to relieve the pressures of my arousal. I was being transported to a pleasure palace, one that I had not intended to visit.

His fingers began to slide in and out, finger fucking, as we crudely called it in my teens. Phil leaned over me, and his lips touched mine; I had not expected that moment, nor did I anticipate my lips responding to the kiss. As we kissed, he rolled more over me, and then his fingers left me. I realised he was sliding his dick up and down my crease, and then slowly he inserted it.

He didn’t try to push all of his dick inside me; he obviously knew that wasn’t going to work. My fanny tightened around him, squeezing him, and Phil began to shag me. He did press at my depth, but not painfully, and soon we were in a rhythm. He pushed in, and I pushed back. He pulled back, and I pressed into the bed. He began to increase his speed, and I was gasping as he reached my depth.

He wasn’t close enough to me for his skin to slap against mine; it was, apart from my gasps, an almost silent shag. My breath was lost in my chest, my fingers clutching his bedding, my toes curling. He unexpectedly stopped and pulled out, my fanny feeling empty.

“Roll over, Mica,” he said as he moved from above me. I did as he asked, and he pulled my hips backwards. I was effectively kneeling on the bed, my head resting on the mattress. Phil lined up between my legs, and his dick moved up and down the crease of my arse. He pressed against my sphincter; his dick, wet with my juices, soon found its way.

I rarely had anal sex with Paul, usually only in our early days when I was on my period. These days, it was mouth and hand, or shower sex. Paul, being somewhat larger than his father, had not found getting in that easy, and I found it a little painful. Phil, however, with his lesser girth, had entered with ease.

What shocked me was that I realised he was entirely inside me; his stomach was pressing my buttocks apart. I felt a vague sensation of fullness inside and an almost pleasant pressure on my ring. Phil eased backwards; I could feel his movement as he slipped out of me, and then he was pushing back in. There was a warmth at my entrance as he began to shag my backside. Faster he went, his skin slapping against my buttocks, a crack echoing around the room.

I gasped, I grunted, I was being shagged hard and furiously, and I was losing control. I had never felt anything like it; this was not anal sex as I knew it; it was primal shagging.

“Oh, fuck,” I gasped as I felt my pressures increasing.

“Oh, shit,” as my electrics were on fire.

“Oh, God,” as my pleasures coursed around my body.

I was close, far closer than I expected. I had never orgasmed during anal sex; it had been simply something I endured for Paul. It wasn’t that it was unpleasant; it just never felt as satisfying as regular sex.

“Oh my fucking God,” I screamed as my pressures let go; my pleasures flooded me, and my orgasm erupted, exploding through my body. I knew my arse was squeezing his dick, and my fanny was tightening on emptiness. I gasped, I shrieked, I bucked beneath him, and I heard him grunt and push in hard.

Phil eased backwards, causing his dick to slip out of my backside as if it were being expelled. He rolled and lay on his back. I turned over and lay by his side, my eyes still shut as I recovered from the most unexpected of orgasms.

“Give me a few minutes,” Phil said, “and I will fuck you properly.”

“Oh, dear Lord Phil,” I managed.

I had recovered; my heart had slowed, and my breathing returned to normal. I looked across at Phil. His dick was half hard, just lying proud above his stomach. I turned to my side and bent down, running my tongue along his dick. Phil gasped, and his dick jerked. I licked away all the semen that was coating it; he produced so much. ‘My insides must be swimming,’ I thought.

I turned more so that my fanny was over his face and...