7 comments/ 32100 views/ 13 favorites Mrs Beattie's Christmas Tree By: geronimo_appleby Foreword: My entry into the Winter Holidays Contest. It's a short First Time scene set in an English market town back in the late 70s. Some of the terms and expressions might seem odd to some readers, but I hope the context in which I've used them gives an indication of meaning and doesn't interrupt any flow. Apologies for any errors which remain in the text. Feedback is appreciated, as ever. Thank you for reading. GA -- Calpe, Spain -- 25th of November 2015. *** "You are quite good-looking," she said, shrugging and adding, "But for me ... you are just a little too nice." Sabrina leaned across to pick up the empty glass from the table in front of me. "Another?" she asked. I sat there, surprised and mortified while Dave sniggered behind his hand. "Yeah, get him a pint," he said to Sabrina. He showed her his own empty glass. "And I'll have another." She took both pint pots and turned to go back to the bar, Dave's eyes fixed to the curve of her buttocks packed into her jeans. "Sorry," said Dave. "I shouldn't have asked her." "Too nice?" I said, face tilted towards the top of the table, genuinely bemused by the news. I looked up at Dave. "How can I be too nice? How can that be right?" "Some birds like lads to be a bit edgy, a bit ... dangerous," he said. "Don't be daft," I replied. Dave shrugged, pulling a face. "It's true." He thrust his chin towards the bar. "Didn't you hear what she just said?" "Well, yeah, but she can't mean it that way, surely." I was nineteen and dogged by clinging virginity, my latest attempt to rid myself of the shameful condition rebuffed. I had a thing for Sabrina, as did most other blokes in the pub. She was the same age as me, an exquisite German girl with honey-blonde hair and a penchant for Rod Stewart and tight-fitting blue jeans. The rumour was she shaved her muff, which was considered slightly deviant in the winter of 1978, especially in parochial North Yorkshire, and I was horny as a dog with two cocks to find out if the rumours were true. Sabrina worked as a barmaid in the Hyde Park pub, hence our presence at a table in the bar, and I suspect she was the draw for quite a few of the men present on that cold December night. Good beer and a good-looking barmaid: a recipe for success. "Yeah, she does," said Dave, answering my question. "It's like this," he went on. "Look at me, I'm hardly David-fuckin'-Essex, am I?" This was true, Dave wasn't exactly blessed by the good looks fairy. "Well, all right, so what?" I replied. "Well," he continued, leaning in to rest his forearms on top of the table between us. "I've had a few shags..." Dave paused to let this sink in. "How do you think I manage it?" I blinked at him, clueless. "They laugh their knickers off, Rob." "What?" I asked, getting more and more confused. He sighed and rolled his eyes. "I make the birds laugh. They like me because I'm funny." "But you said they liked a bloke to be edgy, a bit dangerous. How can being funny be dangerous?" Dave sighed again, his forehead dropping into his palm. "Jesus-fuckin'-Christ," he muttered, then brought his eyes back up to me. "Are you totally fuckin' dense, or what? I'm not saying I'm dangerous, you daft twat ... that's the way I get into their knickers. But her," he added, nodding at Sabrina as she approached with a pint in each hand. "Well, it's obvious, Rob. She likes the cunts." Sabrina's arrival curtailed my next question. She put the beers down in front of us and held out a palm for the money. Dave gave her some coins and threw a clever a quip her way to make her laugh, which she did before playfully pushing him on one shoulder. "You are a very bad man," said Sabrina, eyes glittering at Dave. Some flirting followed, with more chuckles coming from the barmaid. "See?" Dave said, taking the top off his beer after we both watched Sabrina hip-sway away. "Cunt," I responded, spitting the epithet as a sign of frustration. Dave laughed and pointed at my beer. "Drink that, it'll make you feel better." "Do you reckon she'd let you shag her?" I asked. Dave pulled a face, shaking his head. "Not a chance," he replied. "I told you, she likes the twats. Probably likes it rough ... Maybe even up her arse." "She's nineteen!" I exclaimed, appalled at the suggestion Sabrina could be so depraved. "So fuckin' what?" Dave looked at me like I was some kind of idiot. "It's bloody obvious, Rob. Jesus, you really don't have any fuckin' clue!" I was about to protest, and probably get shirty, but Dave happened to glance across the bar when the front door opened. "Ah, there's Paddy," he said. "Sorry, Rob, got to go and say hello. He might have a bit of business for me." Dave picked up his beer, leaving me alone at the table while he plotted with Paddy, a former jockey-turned-entrepreneur whose business deals hovered around the periphery of shady. Paddy was the sort of wheeler-dealer who did a lot of wheeling and dealing in pubs. I sipped my beer and pondered my lot, an island of thought amid the hubbub around me. There was chatter and laughter of the primarily male variety, the Hyde Park wasn't a place for the ladies, although they would come later, as would the hard drinkers, which is when the fights would begin. But, for the moment, the buzz was a happy one, the atmosphere convivial at five in the afternoon a couple of weeks before Christmas, a stratum of smoke clinging to the ceiling like a layer of blue icing running through a cake. The bar was filling up at the end of a day's work, which was something I'd been avoiding for the past couple of weeks. "Paddy's got some Christmas trees," I heard Dave say. It took a moment to realise my friend was back in his seat. I'd been thoroughly engrossed with thinking about what Sabrina had said, his return going unnoticed. "What?" I said, blinking at him. "Fuckin' Christmas trees." "What about them?" "Paddy's got some." It felt like I'd slipped into some other world. I had no idea what Dave was jabbering about. "So what?" "Look, do you want to make a few bob?" asked Dave with a frustrated roll of his eyes. "Doing what?" "Jesus fuckin' Christ!" Dave spluttered. "Helping me, you docile twat. I can get a few orders and you can help me deliver them." "Deliver what?" I replied, still not getting it. "Look," said Dave, continuing his sentence while speaking very slowly and clearly and slightly robotic. "Paddy ... Has a few Christmas trees ... Do ... you ... want ... to ... help ... me ... deliver ... them ... If I get a few orders?" he finished. I looked at him, present concerns put aside at the prospect of earning. "How much?" Typically Dave, he went all shifty, as I'd expected, eyes narrowing, lips pursing in a moue of concentration. "Two quid for a day," he said after a pause. I laughed in his face. "Fuck off. A fiver at least." "Four," he responded, but I stuck to my guns. Dave made a bit of a show of it, but finally agreed. "Give us a couple of days," he went on. "To drum up some orders and that." I agreed and we chinked glasses, downing what was left of our beers. It was my round, so I went to the bar, happy with the prospect of a few quid in my pocket. * I should have known it wouldn't be so easy. In my naivety I imagined it would be me and Dave doing the rounds as a team, the reality being I was expected to drive around town on my own. To add insult to injury it was a freezing cold morning when Dave handed me the keys to his shitty old van. It was an old G-registration Ford from the 60s, a one-time sturdy workhorse now redolent of old potatoes and damp dog. It was a basic model to begin with, but was now rotting from the inside, luxuries like heating not part of the deal. Not that a heater would be much use anyway. I could see a disconcerting amount of tarmac through rusted metal down at my feet, and had a real concern about the ripped and smelly driver's seat falling onto the road as the van juddered and coughed along Commercial Street. "Twat," I said when Dave cried off the deliveries. "I've got other things to see to," he told me, thrusting a sheet of paper towards me. "There's a list of names and addresses." I took it, quickly scanning the hand-written scrawl. "Fifteen," said Dave, moving towards the rear of the van. "Trees are in the back." I took the already laden van as a bonus. At least that was one job I didn't have to do. Then it suddenly dawned on me to ask, "How much are you getting for each one?" Apparently Dave was afflicted by a sudden onset of deafness. He ignored the question completely and pretended to check the length of grubby twine he'd used to secure the van's back doors. The trees, although bundled tight in a wrapping of netting, were too long for the bed of the van, their clean-cut stumps protruding a few feet. I decided to let it go about the money, Dave wouldn't give me an honest answer anyway, and five pounds wasn't a bad whack for delivering a few trees. I took the key from Dave and set off after a few minutes of examining the addresses and deciding on which to do first. It wasn't too difficult, just uncomfortable and cold, the frigid air moaning and whistling in through the corroded panels down near my feet. Another problem I had to contend with were pine-needles shedding from the branches and itching my neck as I lugged tree after tree along wet and slippery paths up to front doors. Four hours saw the last of the deliveries and, job done, I went in search of Dave. "Just had another order," he told me when I found him in the bar at the Hyde Park. "Do it yourself," I said, the key to the van in my hand, which was extended in his direction. "Meeting Paddy," he countered. "Might have some more work," added Dave as an incentive to the unexpected overtime. "It'll cost you two pints when I've finished." He gave me a look, head tilting towards his shoulder. There were a couple of seconds of deliberation before, "Yeah, all right." "What's the matter with you?" I asked when I saw his smirk. "Me?" replied Dave. "Nowt's wrong, Rob." He shook his head and went on to say, "Mrs Beattie was in half-an-hour ago. There's a tree in the shed at the allotment. You know where she lives, eh?" There was a hitch of some indefinable emotion inside my chest at the mention of Mrs Beattie, a voluptuous lady of some undetermined age, undeniably attractive in a chestnut-haired, dark-eyed, gypsy kind of way. There was always a hint of gossip about regarding Mrs Beattie. She'd been around for years and was a fairly steady Saturday night face in the pub. Divorced or widowed, nobody seemed to know for sure. If she had a steady man in her life, that was also a bit of a mystery and the subject of murmured speculation. "Not exactly," I told Dave, a tickle of anxiety deep in my core at the prospect of encountering Mrs Beattie as a one-to-one basis on her territory. I'd never spoken to the woman beyond a nod and a hello if we passed in the bar. And, to be honest, I was a little intimidated by her. Dave gave me her address and told me she was expecting the tree the same afternoon. "Take you half-an-hour," he added. I was going to ask for one of the beers before I did the job, but Paddy walked in and took Dave's attention. Fifteen minutes later I pulled up outside Mrs Beattie's brick semi-detached place on Beverley Road. I dragged the tree out of the van, cursing at the chafing needles abrading my neck, lugging the thing up the drive to the door at the side of the house as per Dave's instructions. "Ooh, there you are," Mrs Beattie said in a smoky-voiced drawl which caressed my cock and tightened my balls. "Come in. I've been waiting for you." She made me take off my boots before allowing me into the house. I left them on a square of lino in a small enclosed space between the back door and kitchen, following Mrs Beattie through to a living room beyond. "We'll put it up in the front parlour," she told me, opening a door off to the side as we went in. I lugged the tree into a hallway, stairs immediately in front of us a door left and right. Mrs Beattie turned left to lead me into a room at the front of the house which seemed little used. I got the general impression Mrs Beattie kept to the room just beyond the kitchen most of the time. As we'd passed through I'd seen a television and sofa in there, as well as a table set under the window where she probably took her meals. That back room had been a little less tidy than the one where she wanted the tree, the front parlour she'd called it. Not that the house was a mess, it just struck me she didn't use this room much day-to-day, that she kept it for something more formal. I rested the tree upright in a corner, silently cursing the pine needles until I saw Mrs Beattie was looking at me. "I've seen you in the Hyde Park. What's your name?" she asked. "Robert," I told her, blood warming my cheeks. I felt silly because of the blush, my eyes sliding down to the carpet. "But I get called Rob." "I'll call you Robert," she told me, her voice bringing my focus back up. "I'm Jane. Pleased to meet you." I saw her standing a few feet away, hands on her hips, her generous frontage packed into a cream-coloured cardigan. "Would you be a love and help me set the tree up? It would be a struggle doing it all by myself." I felt an odd slide in the pit of my stomach, my eyes lingering on the skin of her exposed throat and chest. She was modestly covered despite the top three buttons of her cardigan being undone. I could see the very top of her cleavage, but not much of its mysterious depth. However, the way the cardigan clung to her body made it very obvious Mrs Beattie was very well endowed. It would be disconcerting, but very pleasurable to spend some time in her company. I was just thinking about how much opportunity I'd have to ogle her breasts when she said, "Are you all right, Robert? You look a little flushed." Startled from my appreciation of her physical form, I blinked and looked at her face. "Oh, uh, it's cold outside," I managed to stammer, discomfited by finding her watching my face. My cheeks felt hotter than ever when I realised she must have seen me clocking her tits, the tug of desire through my core making me feel even more uncomfortable in her presence. "And that fire's pretty fierce," I added, nodding towards the flames flickering behind a fire guard. "It'll be cosy in here when the tree's decorated," Mrs Beattie said. "You can stay to help me, can't you?" I was caught by her question, nervous at the idea of being alone with Mrs Beattie for too long, anxious at coming across like a mumble-mouthed fool, but also excited at the prospect of being in her immediate orbit. "Do you have to be somewhere else?" Mrs Beattie went on. "More deliveries, perhaps?" I thought about lying and telling Mrs Beattie I had some more urgent business elsewhere. There were two pints and five pounds waiting for me in the bar of the Hyde Park, but when she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, cocking one hip while fixing her gaze on my face, I saw her breasts roll under the cardigan and couldn't stop myself from croaking about not having anything else to do. "Thank you, Robert," she murmured, moving towards me to pat her hand against my forearm a few times. "You know," she continued, "I've got some cans in the fridge -- can I get you a beer?" She didn't wait for any reply, just eased past me and said, "You make a start stripping that net off the tree. I'm going to pour myself a white wine. I'll be back through in a moment with the drinks." I watched her go, taking a quick, appreciative glance at her arse and legs when she went, the skirt tight across her hips, its hem at a flattering point just above her knees. There was a fleeting urge to smack the palm of one hand across Mrs Beattie's broad beam, her buttocks a counterbalance to the plentiful bounty beneath her cardigan, her earthy sexiness sending a surge of yearning through my cock. "Fucking hell," I quietly groaned, resisting the temptation to squeeze my dick in case she came back through the door. If I succumbed to temptation and touched myself, Mrs Beattie might get a shock when she returned to catch me yanking a full-blooded erection. "Jesus," I added, consigning the image of her tight cardigan to memory. I'd make use of it later that night when I was alone in bed, my fevered imagination conjuring up all manner of lewd intimacies between the voluptuous lady of the house and myself. I set about stripping the net off the tree, man-handling the thing to a large ceramic pot she had set up in front of the bay window, curtains pulled shut against the early gloaming of mid-December. Mrs Beattie returned with a wine for herself and a beer for me, placing the drinks down on a sideboard set across the back wall. Between us we got the trunk of the tree embedded in its new home, with Mrs Beattie then setting me to rearranging furniture. I shoved an armchair around before realigning a two-seater settee in the same green velvety flock covering as the chair. After that, when the heavy lifting and shifting were done, and I thought my usefulness was at an end, Mrs Beattie pressed me into helping her with a string of fairy lights and some tinsel. We were two drinks in by the time I stood on a ladder-backed chair I'd lifted through from the other room, fixing the star to the top of the tree. Mrs Beattie let out a gasp of approval when she switched off the overhead light, the tree twinkling and sparkling, garlands of fairy lights gently glowing. "Oh, Robert," she cooed. "It's wonderful. Thank you." She was alongside me, glass in her hand, her words making me turn to look at her just as she was swivelling her face towards mine. I glanced down at her chest, the sight of her weighty round tits tugging my vitals. Then she moved in close to place her lips on my cheek. "Thank you ever so much," I heard her murmur as the two beers and her proximity overwhelmed me. It was a gentle, chaste kiss on one cheek, but the heat coming off her and her scent wafting between us brought the uncontrolled words slipping out of me before I knew I was speaking. "You smell lovely," I mumbled. I think you're gorgeous." "Then show me," she purred, moving face-on. And the next thing I knew, we were kissing, her breasts pressed against me while her tongue probed my mouth. * She stepped back, smiling while taking the can from my hand. I was boggling at her, not quite believing what had just happened, stunned by what I'd said and her response to it. My astonishment grew when Mrs Beattie placed her glass and my can on the sideboard and said, "I think you're quite gorgeous as well. Then she layered on another layer of shock by deftly unzipping my flies. She asked, "Got a liking for ladies with big tits?" her fist working my length. "I saw you looking." I gaped down at where her hand worked back and forth, stunned to see myself so huge in her fingers. "Mrs Beattie," I groaned. "Touch me," she breathed in reply, stepping in to kiss my mouth once again. "If you want to, you can feel them. Be as rough as you like. I'm just in the mood." She chuckled when I growled and mauled at her breasts. Mrs Beattie let me squeeze her for a few seconds, then took a step back, her eyes set on the jib of my cock poking through the gap in my jeans. "Is there anywhere you have to be soon, Robert?" she asked me, fingers going to her buttons. "No," I managed to whine, gulping when she shrugged the cardigan down off her shoulders. She smiled and allowed me to ogle her boobs, head canted to one side. Still in her bra, she dropped the cardigan onto the arm of the chair, hefting her breasts with both hands. "Would you like to spend a little time here with me?" Mrs Beattie's Christmas Tree "God, can I?" I mewled, swallowing heavily again. "I'm not too old for you, am I?" asked Mrs Beattie, her eyes fixed on my face. I shook my head and burbled something incomprehensible. "I think you're perfect," I managed in the end. A laugh tinkled out of her. "Oh, I wouldn't go that far," she said with a shrug. "But thank you, it's lovely to hear you say it." Mrs Beattie moved in to lay claim to my cock once again. She stroked its full length and smeared clear pre-cum over the knob-end. "How old are you, Robert?" she purred. I stammered my age, a revelation which brought a burst of delight from Mrs Beattie. "I'm so wicked," she grinned into my face, fingers still going at my dick. "I'm twice your age, it's a scandal," she added. "But we don't have to tell anyone, do we? We could have a nice little fuck, couldn't we Robert?" I was groaning and gasping and fighting the urge to squirt jizm all over her skirt. "I can fuck you?" I warbled. "Oh yes," she nodded. "I think you're quite keen." Mrs Beattie squeezed my girth in emphasis. "And I'd love to have you put this inside me." I gasped and stammered, "Buh-but, I've never done it before, Mrs Beattie," her fist stilling as soon as I'd said it. "You're a virgin?" she gaped, eyebrows up in her hairline. The shame of it sent heat flooding my face. I thought it was all over. What use would Mrs Beattie have for me now? "I'm sorry," I mumbled, certain I was about to be ridiculed and thrown out of her house. "Honestly?" she was saying. "You've never...? This is your first time?" I closed my eyes while sucking in air through my nose. "I'm sorry," I repeated while nodding. "Sorry?" she gasped. "Whatever for? Jesus Christ, Robert," Mrs Beattie went on. "You don't have to be sorry." "Buh-but I'm nineteen..." She must have seen something in my expression, read the pain and humiliation creasing my face because she was suddenly cranking my cock once again, words coming out in short little bursts. "Did you think I'd mind, Robert? Is that it? Do you think I'm not thrilled to find out I'll be your first? I think it's wonderful, darling ... And don't worry about how old you are. I think it's sweet." She was moving in close, eyes gleaming with some inner fire as she carried on cranking away. "I think it's fucking marvellous," Mrs Beattie informed me. "A virgin," she cooed, shaking her head. "I'll take very good care of you, Robert. I'll take very good care of your lovely hard cock." Euphoria burst in my chest when I heard what she said, the realisation a cold-water shock. "You mean...?" I gurgled, gaping into her uptilted face. "We're really going to do it? You want to do it with me?" Mrs Beattie smirked and nodded and pulled her lower lip in between her teeth, eyes flashing carnal intent. "Of course I want to do it with you -- why wouldn't I? Yes, Robert, you and I," breathed Mrs Beattie, "are most certainly going to fuck." Lust twisted my guts when she said it, the sight of her breast-flesh shivering and rolling while she kept working at me with one hand bringing a low groan from my throat. "I'll suck you as well," Mrs Beattie went on. "Ever had your cock sucked before?" Unable to articulate a coherent reply, I just shook my head to indicate the negative. Mrs Beattie pouted, then asked, "Have you ever licked a woman's cunt?" The casual use of the obscenity hit me low and hard, the image of Mrs Beattie all bare and supine rushing across the screen of my mind's eye. In my head I saw her nude and splayed, fingers holding herself open while she mumbled at me from under eyes glazed with desire. "Lick it, then fuck me," the fantasy breathed. "I'm so fucking randy." "Oh my God!" I heard the real Mrs Beattie squeak. "You're going to come!" And I was. It was all getting too much. Her hand had been working my cock, coaxing the irreversible surge up from my balls while her breasts and her face and her words were a taunt. "Mrs Beattie," I gurgled, feeling the sap rise. "I'm sorry ... I can't help it ... You're--" In the final seconds, before it all turned into a blur, I watched Mrs Beattie react. She kept on jacking my cock as she went down to her knees, aiming the eye at her chest. "You dirty bugger!" she yelped when I let fly, cum splashing over her skin with an audible squirt. "You're coming," she added, the announcement completely unnecessary as more semen sprayed over the upper slopes of her breasts. After that I was groaning and grunting, the pleasure of it bringing sobs from my chest, cum bursting out in a seemingly never-ending deluge. Burst after burst of pent up frustration spattering down on Mrs Beattie as she took all I had. "I'm sorry," I gasped when some level of coherent thought returned. Mrs Beattie laughed at me while holding her cardigan against her chest to soak up the mess. "Don't worry," she said with a shrug, "it'll wash." "No," I croaked, "I meant for not being able to control myself." Another laugh came out of her as she clambered upright. Mrs Beattie rolled her eyes, grinning at me while saying, "I take it as a compliment, Robert," then came in to kiss my mouth. Pulling away from the kiss, Mrs Beattie then said, "I think I'm going to get you in the bath. We can bathe and get all clean and then..." She shrugged again, eyes locking on mine to hold my stare while she asked, "Would you like me to take you upstairs to my bed? We can take it slowly. We can bathe and then explore. I'll show you what makes me feel good. I can make your first time special." "Do you mean it?" I asked, gasping from the effort of pouring spunk over Mrs Beattie's chest. She rolled her eyes at me, nodding and smirking while purring, "Oh yes, Robert. I do. Come along," added Mrs Beattie, taking my hand. "Let's go upstairs." * She drew a deep bath and eased me out of my clothes. The first heady rush had calmed somewhat, the shock wearing off slowly, and I was shy when she urged me to strip, intimidated by her experience, concerned I wouldn't match other lovers she'd known. "Come on," cooed Mrs Beattie when I was down to my pants. "Let's get you bathed." She pecked my cheek, eyes twinkling with devilment. "I'll get in there with you. I've got to wash this muck off my tits." I blushed at the reminder, then sucked in some courage along with a deep draught of air. "That's it," she purred when I stepped out of my undies. "Oh my," she added, eyes moving over my nakedness. "I'm going to have a good time with you." At her insistence, I climbed into the bath, Mrs Beattie commenting when she saw the rash on my neck. "Pine needles," I told her as I sank into the hot water. "Bloody Christmas trees." There was some conversation about my employment status while Mrs Beattie undressed. She made a comment about me getting a proper job, then distracted me by unclasping her bra. "Now remember," she said, pausing with her hands at the fastening to her skirt. "I'm thirty-bloody-eight. I'm not one of them skinny birds you see gadding about." I was hard when I gurgled an honest, "I think you're lovely," desire for her ripe curves thickening my dick. "Yes, well," Mrs Beattie replied. She hesitated a moment, eyes fixed on my face as though gauging my response. Then she shrugged and muttered something indistinct, the zip going down. She turned and shimmied, the skirt going over her hips, knickers coming away at the same time. I had a moment to marvel at her jiggling buttocks while she kicked off her shoes, the dark honeyed hue of her skin reinforcing the suggestion of gypsy blood I'd seen in her eyes and the colour of her hair. There was definitely a touch of something exotic in her lineage -- Mediterranean perhaps, somewhere back there? And then all thought of her ancestry vanished when she turned, her vulva level with my eyes. "I've heard that barmaid did hers this way," Mrs Beattie informed me. "You know, the pretty German lass at the Hyde park." I boggled, dick pulsing at the sight of her meaty labia a foot or two away from my face, her mons totally bald. "It feels a bit strange," the lady informed me. She was examining herself, chin on her chest, looking down over her boobs. "Makes me bloody horny, though," chuckled Mrs Beattie with a roll of her eyes. "What do you think, Robert?" I had no words. I just sat in the bath, mouth open as I took I all in. It was just another surprise on top of everything else. "At least there's no hair to get in the way when you kiss it," she was saying as she stepped over the rim of the tub. The water rose up to my chest when she settled in with a long drawn out sigh. Mrs Beattie reclined, our legs entwining as she murmured her appreciation and I stared at her breasts. "Isn't this lovely?" she whispered, eyes staying closed. I eyed her long fleshy nipples in the disks of their areolae, yearning rising inside me. "I want to fuck you," I gurgled, her eyes flying open as water sloshed the sides of the bath. "You bugger," chuckled Mrs Beattie when I lunged in and grabbed at her tits. "All right," she added, still laughing. "We'll have a quick wash and get out. Stop it," she said, slapping my hands. "There's time for you to play with them when we're in bed. Stop being so eager." "But, Mrs Beattie..." I whined, a fist working my cock below the water line. "Here, stop that now. Let me wash you. Stand up, Robert," she ordered." She pushed my hand away from my cock and urged me to rise, eyes going wide when she saw my hard-on jiggling and waving. Mrs Beattie took over. She lathered up soap in her hands and then wanked at my length for a few strokes, then rinsed off the suds and, levering herself halfway out of the bath, ducked in to suck the big purple head. I groaned when her tongue tickled the underside of my cock-end, hips thrusting while instinctively fucking into her mouth. She reared back and told me to sit down. "Calm down, Robert. Let me wash you all over." I sat there and let her do it, then took great pleasure in soaping her tits, taking a long time as I massaged her slippery flesh, kneading Mrs Beattie's heavy breasts while also leaning in to suck at both of her nipples. Then it was over. After a few minutes soaping and rinsing, Mrs Beattie announced we were ready to climb out of the bath and dry off. It was a chaotic time as she attempted to towel herself dry and I kept grabbing at her body. My cock waggled around, the thing as stout as an oak branch, desire making me bold. I was excited beyond anything I'd known in the past, desperate to touch her body all over, to thrust my cock into her cunt. If I had my way I would have fucked into her right there in the bathroom. All I could think of was getting my dick into her. I was frantic to experience the sensation of actually fucking a woman. Taking my time to savour the moment meant nothing at all. Mrs Beattie, however, had other ideas. She knew I'd be sorry if it was all done too quickly. "Robert," she said, grabbing hold of my wrists. "Calm down, darling; don't be so urgent. I promise we'll do it, but you have to let me show you the way." Moving in close, she slowly jacked at my length, the pleasure of it making me groan. We kissed, her breasts squashing between us, tongues squirming and writhing while she did her best to soothe the beast rampaging inside me. "But I want to--" I growled as I fucked into her fist, palms sliding over her skin. "I'm going mad," Mrs Beattie. She stepped back, her eyes on my dick. "God, you're so ardent ... It's exciting having you so keen. But I want you to savour this, Robert. Don't rush in like a mad bull. You'll thank me for it when you're older." "Please," I hissed, tugging my own length. "I've got to put it in. You're so fucking sexy!" I watched her eyes close as she sucked in a deep breath, the roll and sway of her tits doing nothing to cool my inflamed passion. "You better take care of me," she said when she opened her eyes. I didn't understand what she meant until Mrs Beattie clarified by adding, "Will you stay with me tonight? I want this to be more than a quick fuck. I have needs too, Robert. I want us to love the whole night." In that moment I was so desperate I would have agreed to her keeping my testicles as a souvenir. She could hang them on the Christmas tree if she wanted. All that mattered was getting inside Mrs Beattie. Desire was an imperative, my need all consuming. I gasped, "I'll do anything for you," lunging at her again. Then we were kissing, my hands full of her body. I grabbed at her buttocks to pull her in close, the tips of my fingers finding her sex all hot and wet with her lust when I explored the deep crease between the cheeks of her arse. "Oh Jesus," I moaned, shocked at finding her sodden. "Bedroom," she growled. "If you want it so bad, you're going to get it, my lad." * Fortunately for me, Mrs Beattie's house came fitted with central heating. Naked, she bundled me onto a bed the size of a tennis court, bounding aboard to join me as I sank into the thick quilt which covered it. She moved fast, chuckling while I laid on my back, her hand on my dick. Mrs Beattie knelt alongside me, caressing my length while lifting one leg. "See this?" she said, her voice clotted with whatever she had going on inside her. I nodded, gulping when I saw her splaying her ungainly labia with the fingers of one hand. "This is my clit," Mrs Beattie lewdly informed me, flicking the tip of a forefinger over a swollen pink bean. "You're going to suck this fucking thing," she went on, eyes closing as she gave it a quick rub. Something wrenched loose deep in my chest when Mrs Beattie continued with her gravel-throated and very lewd, refrain. "And here..." she mewled, two fingers sliding into her opening. "This is my cunt ... And she's hungry. When you've finished fucking me, Robert," I heard her mumble, "I expect you to use your fingers and tongue on my clout. It isn't over when you've shot your muck. I know it's your first time ... but you're going to learn how to please a woman as well. I'll look after you..." Mrs Beattie fixed me with a level look of such intensity I stopped thrusting up into her fist. "...but you have to promise to take care of me. Is that all right? Do you understand me? If you make me feel good, Robert," my soon-to-be-lover continued, "well," she added with a smirk and lascivious wink, "we can do it again and again. All over Christmas," she purred, breasts dangling as she leaned in to kiss me. "I'll do anything," I moaned, willing to do whatever it took. "Good lad," she said, eyes fixed on my face. "So why don't you have a little taste?" She left me alone, letting go of my cock while rolling onto her back. "You're going to have a lot of firsts today, Robert." Mrs Beattie held herself open, her sex swollen and wet. "Take a first taste before you put your cock inside me. Let's see how you do at sucking my cunny." * I made her squeal and grunt and shout out obscenities. She was slick on my tongue, the texture and taste beyond anything I'd ever experienced before. I went at her, tentative at first, my confidence blooming while working on instinct, guidance gasping from Mrs Beattie, her moans and sighs and yelps of delight an indication of how I was performing Mrs Beattie told me what to do and where she wanted it doing. She helped me take her to the precipice by moaning at me to lick and nibble and suck. My desire to fuck into her body eased as I became engrossed in my task, the realisation I could get Mrs Beattie to climax with fingers and tongue a vague goal in the distance. I don't have any idea how long I was busy down between those smooth thighs. Time meant nothing while I soaked up the experience. "Oh my God, bloody hell" Mrs Beattie cried out. She had two of my fingers rubbing inside her, my lips sucking her clit when the yelp burst out of her. At first I thought I'd done something wrong, that I'd perhaps been too robust and hurt her without meaning to. But then she muttered about it all being so good, about how wonderful it was to have such a fast learner sucking her cunt. "I don't fucking believe it," squeaked Mrs Beattie, the bed heaving like a rowing boat in a storm. "Keep doing it," she grunted, feet coming up off the bed. "Rub me harder, you beautiful boy. Keep using your fingers... "Not so much on my clit," Mrs Beattie called out a few seconds later. "But don't you dare stop with those fingers." Awed by what I was doing, I kept my hand where it was, digits busy, the violence on top of the bed holding me transfixed while I worked my way up onto my knees. I was still going at her when her orgasm exploded. She bucked and writhed, clasping my wrist while forcing her body against me. I looked on, agog. I stared at her face twisted in agony as she sobbed her delight and wailed on about how good it felt to climax on my fingers. "I don't bloody believe it," Mrs Beattie breathed, the vehemence eventually subsiding. She gaped up at me, eyes wide, sucking in air in-between gasping on about how incredible it had been for me to get her to orgasm. "I want more of you," she informed me, pulling me down for a kiss. Then, when I slurped and slobbered over her nipples, the yearning blooming white hot in my belly, Mrs Beattie told me it was time to make love. "Come on, daring," she cooed, stroking my hair with one hand. She eased me away from her breasts, legs going wide as she offered me her sex. "Fuck me," Mrs Beattie murmured. "But take your time," she continued. "Don't rush in and start galloping away. Take this memory with you forever, Robert." I could feel my heart leaping about inside the cage of my ribs as I shuffled in on my knees. I asked, "What do I do?" cranking my cock while staring down at the mystery of those gooey folds. She chuckled, reaching down with one hand, taking control while muttering at me to hold myself over her body on straight arms. "Here, let me show you," she whispered, guiding me to her. "There, just there. Push, Robert," she said. And then I groaned when I felt her molten embrace close around me. "God," I gurgled, the sensation sublime as I went in up to my balls. "Love me," she breathed, hips starting to move. "You'll never forget me, you know. I'll always be your first time." End Afterword: I don't usually put up any thoughts at the end of a submission, but I just wanted to explain why I've ended the piece where I have. I did consider including the sex between Mrs Beattie and Robert, but then thought it might just be another gratuitous round of gasping and clutching and humping, which seemed unnecessary. For me, this scene has an element of romance; it's all about the shy, callow youth being initiated by the sexy, experienced older lady. What I envision happening next is a night of discovery for Robert and pleasure for Mrs Beattie. The following day he'll return the van to Dave and race straight back to Mrs Beattie's house for some more. After that? Who knows. Anyway, that's why it stops where it does. Again, feedback is welcome and thank you for reading.