8 comments/ 44476 views/ 9 favorites Warren Baker's Valentine By: geronimo_appleby Another Valentine's Day contest entry from me. I did think to use this scene as the precursor to a multi-chapter series. There was a lot of potential in subsequent scenes where Warren could enhance his sexual repertoire, but I got bogged down in the Granny's Dirty Photographs series recently and wanted to spread myself across a few more Lit story categories for the Survivor Contest. That's why this piece starts and ends the way it does; I made it a stand-alone scene. I did consider putting this in Romance, but it might be a touch too graphic, and besides, First Time suited it just as well. Whatever, I hope you enjoy Warren Baker's first tome experience. If you do, let me know in feedback. Even if you don't like it, tell me why -- but make it constructive criticism please. Feedback can be by PM on Lit, Public Comment below, or by email. If you want a reply or response, email is best. As usual there may be errors and typos in the text. I hope that any remaining fuck-ups don't detract too much from your enjoyment of the piece. Thanks for reading. GA -- Langkawi, Malaysia -- 20th of January 2013. Prologue The sky was that same pale blue, seemingly endless as I looked up and saw jet contrails criss-cross miles above. A cold day, one of those mornings I always thought were so beautiful, a hint of frost in the air but with the promise of spring just a few weeks away. The day was made even more special by the fact that the doors to one of Her Majesty's prisons had just closed behind me, with me standing on the right side of it, a free man after three years incarcerated within its bulwark walls. By coincidence, pure chance, the authorities had seen fit to release me exactly forty-two years to the day that I'd embarked on a career that would see a few twists and turns over the years. One that as a young man those four decades and one year ago I'd never have believed possible -- not for anyone and especially not me. It was an anniversary of some importance to me, February 14th, Valentine's Day, which, on that night, I lost my virginity and turned myself over to Charlotte Spenser's guidance. One -- A discussion with Charlotte Spenser It happened just before my money ran out, my lucky break. I'd been out wasting shoe leather job-hunting when I arrived back at my lodgings to find Charlotte Spenser waiting. My landlady, an attractive woman in her early thirties appeared to be feeling a little awkward when she said, "Warren, can I speak to you, please?" My landlady's demeanour seemed a little odd, not her usual confident self. At first I thought it had something to do with the rent coming due; Charlotte Spenser knew my circumstances -- orphaned at eighteen and almost broke, unemployed to go with it -- but the subject of our subsequent conversation turned out to be something I'd never have imagined. To say the conversation that followed changed my life is an understatement; it was pivotal and literally did change the entire course of my life. And it started with Mrs Bradshaw, the charlady who 'did' for Charlotte Spenser three days a week. My chat with Charlotte Spenser occurred on the Saturday, but the incident with Mrs Bradshaw took place on a cold Friday -- February 11th. On that day I woke up late. Charlotte Spenser, I knew, would be out on one of her myriad and mysterious errands, but what I didn't know at the time was that Mrs Bradshaw was in the house. She usually came in to clean at ten in the morning on a Tuesday, Friday and Monday, and since my watch had stopped -- I found out later -- at half-past eight, I didn't expect her to walk in on me while I pissed into the toilet bowl. "Oh my gawd!" Mrs Bradshaw blurted after she bustled in on me mid-stream. "I'm so sorry, Warren she added as she backed out quickly. Then she paused, staring at my dick as my unstoppable stream tinkled into the bowl. "Bleedin' 'ell," she muttered, doing a double-take that would have been comical if I hadn't been so surprised by the woman's unheralded entrance. "Oh my gawd," she repeated, finally leaving just as the flow subsided. I stood there with my cock in my fingers as the heat rose in my face. I couldn't believe I'd been caught by my landlady's cleaner. How would I ever face Mrs Bradshaw again? Cursing myself for not bolting the door, and after checking along the landing for any sign of the woman, I scuttled back to my room. I managed to avoid Mrs Bradshaw, a salt-of-the-earth, hard-working Londoner of indeterminate age -- somewhere between forty-five and sixty it seemed to me -- for the rest of that day. The next day, on Saturday, I made sure I bolted the door, even though Mrs Bradshaw wasn't due in that day. I didn't want any more embarrassing episodes, and I cringed when I thought about how mortifying it would be if Charlotte Spenser had waltzed in and caught me pissing. I went out and did the rounds, trying to find work before the last of my cash, my mother's legacy to her only son after she died, ran out. When I arrived back at my lodgings Charlotte Spenser wanted to talk to me. "This is rather delicate, Warren," the elegant Charlotte Spenser said, her tone typically refined and well-modulated. I noticed she avoided my eyes as she indicated I should take a seat in one of the armchairs in the lounge. That we were in the lounge in the first place told me this was a conversation of some gravitas, our usual discourse being conducted at the kitchen table, which was always well-scrubbed thanks to the stalwart efforts of the tireless Mrs Bradshaw. Still thinking it was about the rent I took a seat and waited for the woman to continue. The coal and log fire crackled in the grate and I was grateful for its warmth after a day spent mostly outdoors. "Yes, Mrs Spenser?" I said when the silence began to make me feel awkward. I already felt like a bumbling fool whenever I had reason to talk at length with Charlotte, her poise and grace and posh vowels made me aware of my own clod-hopping, provincial accent, and I always felt like a clumsy bull in her refined and delicate presence. I'd grown up in a small village in the north of England, having come south to London when my mother passed away. I inherited a small sum of money, a fortune it had seemed to me at the time, but after several months in London, my search for work proving fruitless, my meagre cash reserve had dwindled. Which had led to this conversation -- or so I thought. Charlotte glanced at me before her eyes slid away from my face. "Where do I begin, Warren?" she said as she appeared to study the carpet down by her feet. Eventually she gave a sigh and her jaw set in a determined line. "Yesterday," she began. "Mrs Bradshaw ..." The woman paused. "Why is this so bloody difficult?" she muttered under her breath before continuing. "Mrs Bradshaw reported to me that there was a somewhat embarrassing encounter yesterday morning." A lead sinker of anxiety dropped into the pit of my stomach. By face began to burn. "Mrs Spenser," I blurted, caught by surprise and mortification. What had Mrs Bradshaw said? It seemed to me like I was about to be evicted, just what had the woman told my landlady? Had she said I'd deliberately flashed my cock at her? "No, Warren," Charlotte interrupted, her hand in the air like a copper stopping traffic. "It isn't really about Mrs Bradshaw walking in on you." I felt a rush of relief at Charlotte's words, at least it sounded like Mrs Bradshaw wasn't accusing me of being some kind of pervert. "It's more to do with what she saw." Charlotte shook her head. "This is bloody hopeless," she mumbled, again to herself. "Do you want a drink, Warren?" she asked, finally looking at my face. "I could use one." Charlotte must have read the anxiety in my expression. Her tone softened and she smiled at me. "Don't worry, Warren," she breathed. "You're not in any kind of bother. I just need to talk to you. I have a proposal that might ease your money worries." She rose to her feet and smoothed her tight pencil skirt over her hips. "A drink, Warren? Then we'll talk. We'll sit down and have a proper chat." Charlotte walked across to a sideboard and pulled down the mirrored door while elephant's feet danced in my stomach. "Is whisky all right, Warren?" she asked, swivelling her torso to look at me, a bottle in her hand. I nodded, not caring for whisky much but being too polite to refuse. Charlotte muttered about ice and carried a glass out of the room. I heard the heels of her shoes click-clack on the bare, flag-stoned kitchen floor before she returned to the living room and poured a clear spirit into over the ice in her glass. "Water?" she asked. "Yes," I replied, not really knowing what she meant since the strongest alcohol I'd touched to date had been beer. Charlotte brought me the harsh spirit and then sipped at her own drink -- vodka and lemonade I'd come to know. She returned to her seat after appraising me with a strange expression on her face. The woman sipped the vodka and closed her eyes. When she opened them again she sighed. Ice chinked in her glass as she swirled the contents, and then, finally, after a deep swallow she began again. This time Charlotte looked directly at me when she spoke. "Yesterday, Mrs Bradshaw walked in on you at a delicate moment." The woman blinked and settled her green-eyed gaze on me again. "I realise you're a shy young man, Warren, and that this might be absolutely mortifying for you, but please listen to what I have to say." "OK," Mrs Spenser," I replied, the heat rising in my face again. "Good," Charlotte said with a nod of approval, like I'd given the correct answer in school. "Well, as I said, it isn't so much about what happened, Warren, but what Mrs Bradshaw tells me is that you're a particularly gifted young man." She paused and looked and me as though expecting some kind of response. I gaped back at her, not knowing what the hell she meant. "Uh ..." I managed. Regardless that I must have appeared a complete moron, Charlotte continued. "I'm talking about your penis, Warren," she said quietly. She cleared her throat. "Mrs Bradshaw said your penis is quite large." The woman looked at me with a tilt of her head, her next words unbelievable to my ears. "And I wondered if I couldn't just have a little look myself." She gave an airy wave of one hand. "Just to check," she added. I sat there, a great lummox in my worn trousers and shirt, the cuffs and collar frayed. All I could do was blink and replay Charlotte's words in my head. Surely she hadn't just asked to see my cock? Being introverted by nature, and having been raised in a small village, I hadn't had much experience with the opposite sex. I found it difficult to talk to women. It seemed to me they had this secret that they carried around with them. Like they were all connected in their sisterhood -- a kind of sorority of strength in which each of them knew my innermost desires by some kind of telepathy. Ridiculous maybe, but that was the way it felt to me at nineteen years old. Women and girls were an enigma, they reminded me of cats and the way a feline can toy with some poor creature that amuses it (me), before they either kill it or toss it away. If I tried to strike up a conversation, usually in the pub and usually two beers beyond wise, with a woman, I always found myself tongue-tied and red-faced, which for some reason they seemed to find hilarious. I'd then slink away, my face burning, with me despairing if I'd ever shake off my stubborn virginity And why were there always two of them in a close-huddle of conspiratorial glances and ego-deflating sniggers? It had come to the point where I no longer bothered trying with the chat; they either laughed at my accent or my clothes or the fact I was lacking in funds. Of course I've come to realise that my view of the fairer sex back then was slanted; I've since known some wonderful, warm and caring ladies, but for a callow youth from the wilds of Yorkshire it was bloody hard going. Even now some of the put-downs and rejections have the power to make me groan out loud with toe-curling chagrin. "Beg pardon?" Mrs Spenser, I said after a few moments of mind-boggling surprise, still not sure I'd heard her correctly. "I asked if you wouldn't mind letting me see if what Mrs Bradshaw tells me is true. I want to see your penis, Warren. It could lead to something good for you." I blinked again. What the hell did she mean? What was it about my cock that Mrs Bradshaw had seen fit to report to her employer? OK, I knew it was big, but my nature, being shy and withdrawn, and coming from a village, I hadn't seen many other dicks to compare it with. "I ... I don't understand, Mrs Spenser," I stammered. Charlotte slammed the glass down onto a fragile looking side table next to her chair. She gave a snort of exasperation, apparently at the end of her tether and my thick-headedness. "Bloody hell, Warren," she spat, "just show me your fucking cock!" My mother had never sworn in my earshot, and I thought ladies of refinement -- a class in which, in my mind, Mrs Spenser belonged -- were above such vulgarity. To hear Charlotte blurt the obscenity like that stunned me so much that I just sat in the chair, whisky forgotten as I stared at her. "This better be worth the fucking aggravation," Charlotte muttered under her breath as she rose to her feet. "Stand up, you bloody moron," she said less than kindly. I obeyed, more than a little worried that she might slap me around the head. With my chin on my chest I looked down in disbelief while Charlotte's fingers fumbled with my belt buckle. After some more choice swear-words she managed to unfasten the recalcitrant device and unzipped my flies. She whisked my trousers to my knees and I felt a momentary panic when I wondered if my underpants were clean. I think my underwear was the last thing on Charlotte's mind as she stepped back with her fingers at her mouth. What a sight I must have been at that moment with my shirt-tails dangling while my pale and somewhat hairy shanks lay exposed. My cock hung there, flaccid and benign, but something about my appendage had brought forth Charlotte's gasping response. Apparently it was size. "Bloody hell," she muttered, her eyes moving from my cock to my face and back again. "Where did you get that thing from, a bloody horse?" Shrugging I examined my penis. "It's just there," Mrs Spenser," I responded. "I don't know what else to say." I looked at her staring back at me. "Can I pull me keks up now, please?" "Hmm?" the woman replied as she looked up from my tackle to my face. "What? Oh," she added, apparently distracted. "Yes, yes I suppose you'd better, Warren." Charlotte walked back to the small table and swigged down the contents of her glass. "I'm just getting another drink," she informed me. "Sit down, Warren, please." I noticed she was avoiding my eyes again, but I regained my seat once I'd pulled up my undies and my trousers and buckled my belt. Not really liking the taste I swigged at the whisky, but at least the burning in my oesophagus took my mind briefly off what had just occurred. Charlotte reappeared with ice in her glass. She went to the sideboard and glugged in a generous measure of vodka. Lemonade splashed into the mix and Charlotte returned to her seat. "You have no idea, do you?" she said. "No idea at all," the woman added when I shrugged. "Sorry, Mrs Spenser," I mumbled without really knowing why I said it. "Warren," Charlotte said as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "I think I can offer you a job." "A job?" I replied, mystified. I really was naive at that age. "What kind of job?" Charlotte's expression turned vulpine, all narrow-eyed and smirking. She twirled the ice in her glass and reclined in her chair. She crossed her legs and I glanced at them, wondering briefly if she wore stockings. "One that you might find very enjoyable, Warren," Charlotte breathed. "And which we might both find lucrative. What do you say? Would you like to work with me?" There was something in her tone and the way she relaxed in the chair that made my cock twitch with interest. I had no clue as to why my body reacted in that way, I just recognised, on some instinctive, elemental, almost primitive level that Charlotte Spenser, an attractive, experienced and older woman had just seen me as a man. There was an indefinable glint in her eyes that hinted at something dark and sexual. It was as though Charlotte's whole opinion if me had shifted in a single moment, and it was then suddenly obvious to me that the moment had occurred when she'd seen my cock dangling between my legs. Of course I was only partially correct. There was a lot of work to be done but Charlotte, she told me a lot later, had seen the potential -- and she couldn't wait to get her hands on my clay so she could mould me to her satisfaction. Two -- A shocking revelation Being preoccupied with my own financial woes I'd never really thought much about where Charlotte got her money, but she revealed all to me the same evening she made her indecent proposal. "I organise entertainment for discerning clients," she drawled as she lit a cigarette. Sipping at her third vodka Charlotte sat opposite me while I nursed my original whisky. "I come from a very wealthy family, Warren. But I'm the black sheep I'm afraid -- Naughty Charlotte, or Charlotte the Harlot as I've been called. Oh, I suppose I'll still inherit daddy's money, he hasn't completely cut me off, but the family rather prefer it if I don't visit too often. I'm a bit of an embarrassment to them these days." Charlotte shrugged and drew on her cigarette. "So what was I meant to do for money when Pater threw his last little tantrum and threw me out? At first I had a bit of a time as a strumpet." The woman eyed me and blew a viper's breath of smoke towards the high, Victorian ceiling. "Only the best clients though, darling, I didn't fuck the common herd." By then my head was reeling -- Mrs Spenser was a prossie! I'd never even seen a prostitute, not that I knew of anyway, and here I was sharing a house with one. "Anyway, daddy relented after a couple of years, but by then I'd established myself as a hostess who ran a good house and was having far too much of a good time to go trotting back up to Northamptonshire. So I stayed down in town and set myself up in the business. These days, Warren, I organise exclusive soirees. I arrange parties for single gents, even single ladies occasionally," she added, her eyebrow arching. "Some want a partner of the opposite sex, while others prefer some same sex fun. There are a few kinky couples who enjoy third party involvement, or perhaps a husband wants to see his wife take on two or more men at a time. You name it, Warren, and I provide it' anything from arranging for a girl to visit a hotel to what one might refer to as an orgy." Charlotte sipped vodka and waited for me to assimilate this deluge of information. "Mrs Spenser, I ..." I had no idea what I was going to say. I hadn't the words so I simply stopped talking and stared at the cool blonde opposite. It was like I'd never seen her before. Who was this woman? Charlotte carried on. "What I think, Warren is that you could join my stable. Of course it will take some training, but I know a few ladies who would welcome a visit from a fit, healthy, virile young man like you. You have a certain physical attribute that some of my more experienced, mature clients might enjoy." She eyed my groin pointedly as she smoked in silence for a few seconds. Blinking rapidly, too stunned by the woman's revelations to fully comprehend just what she was telling me, I sat there with my mouth hanging open. "May I ask a question, Warren?" Charlotte murmured, with eyes like a snake's as she stared at me. "Something personal." Warren Baker's Valentine "Uh ... I suppose," I managed to croak. "Have you ever been with a woman? You know ... been intimate?" My burning cheeks told her all she needed to know, and Charlotte chuckled as she stubbed the butt of her cigarette into an ashtray. "A blank canvas," the woman murmured to herself, but loud enough for me to hear. "How fucking delightful." Charlotte abruptly rose to her feet. "There it is, Warren," she said brightly. "A job if you want it. I understand that what I've said will have come as a bit of a shock, but please consider it. Don't worry, I won't throw you in at the deep end." She laughed, adding with a smirk, "Those dirty bitches would devour you if I offered you to them as you are. No, you think on the offer and let me know. I'll give you twenty-four hours to decide. If you say yes I'll ... break you in gently. It'll be a probation period initially, just because you've got the requisite equipment doesn't mean you're qualified to use it. But it would be a shame not to try at least. I really do think we could make some money together, darling." She dropped an eyelid onto her cheek in a lascivious wink. "And there's some fun to be had to boot. "Twenty-four hours, lovely boy," Charlotte said as she left me sitting there in the lounge. Three -- Refusal These days a lad of nineteen might leap at the offer as soon as it had been made. But, to me at least, 1972 was a much more innocent time than today. That perception might be in no small part due to my background and naivety at the time. Porn wasn't as prolific as it is today. It existed, but back then I would have been scandalised, and hugely aroused by grainy, black and white images in some naturist magazine, and so what Charlotte had outlined had come as a massive culture shock to me, completely beyond my comprehension. In my world, the notion that married couples actually paid to have someone join them for sex was unbelievable, the stuff of fantasy. But of course in reality the seventies were no more innocent than today, the debauchery was just the same, it just wasn't as widely acknowledged back then. In my village, and even in the towns and cities, there was still a social stigma attached to giving birth out of wedlock, and it was this background noise in my head, my conventional morality, that led me to refuse Charlotte's offer. Truth be told, I was actually shit scared, terrified by the carnal scenes the woman's words had put into my head. I prevaricated all day on that tortured Sunday. But when I sat down with Charlotte that evening I had to refuse. "I'm sorry to hear that, Warren," Charlotte responded as we both sat in the lounge the following day and I declined the woman's proposal with a burning face and much tripping over my own tongue. That left me in potentially dire straits. It was bloody cold outside and I was acutely aware that I didn't have enough funds to meet the rent when it soon became due. "I just can't see meself up to owt like that, Mrs Spenser," I replied. Even hearing my own accent embarrassed me. What would Charlotte's clients think if a bumbling oaf like me turned up on their doorstep? When I looked at Charlotte, regardless of her shocking revelations and her use of profanity, I still saw her as the personification of elegant deportment, and I imagined her clients expected a certain standard. Even I were willing I didn't possess the social graces. "What is it that puts you off, Warren?" Charlotte asked in a kind and concerned tone. "Just about all of it, Mrs Spenser." I watched the flames flickering in the grate to avoid looking at Charlotte's face. "You don't want the money, Warren? Is that it? You don't need the money? Or is it that you wouldn't like to see a woman naked? Wouldn't you like to have sex, Warren? What about it, what about a bare lady rolling around in bed with you? Think about her breasts swaying in front of your eyes, and what about her hands on you. Imagine a woman with your cock in her mouth, Warren, or inside her cunny." I looked at Charlotte quickly. "Mrs Spenser," I gasped. "You shouldn't say that sort of stuff. Not a lady like you." Charlotte snorted a laugh. "Is that how you see me, Warren?" she asked, her tone full of scorn. "A lady?" She chuckled and sipped at the vodka she'd poured at the commencement of this painful interview. "I've been a whore. I've opened my legs for money." Charlotte leaned forward, her eyes boring into mine as she deliberately provoked a reaction from me. "Most of the so-called ladies that you seem to have up on a pedestal are only too eager to get their cunts stuffed with the kind of cock you're carrying around, Warren. That big fucking dick of yours is going to waste. What do you do, wank it off all by yourself?" She paused, her expression all clench-jawed challenge. "I could arrange for somebody, a mature woman with a burning itch between her legs to do that for you, you know. And you'd be paid for it. You'd get money just for letting her do what you'd only do to yourself. "She'll even get rid of your lingering virginity as well. How about that? Don't tell me you'd turn down an offer like that. Twenty pounds in cash in your pocket and a lady to wank you off before she climbs aboard your big cock and fucks you. You'd see her all bare, Warren. Think about that. A naked woman, tits swinging as you look at her face and see the pleasure you're giving her. Or would you like her in lingerie? A lot of men are mad for a girl all dressed up for fucking." My cock had swelled and I felt an almost overwhelming desire to touch myself. A kind of reckless madness swept over me, a hungry desire that made me want to take my cock out right there in front of Charlotte and tug it until I groaned and sprayed jizm all over myself and the furniture. "Mrs Spenser," I said, with my throat so thick with lust that my voice came out as a croak. "Would it really be like that?" "Yes, Warren," the woman replied quietly. "I promise." Images flashed into my head of some mystery woman riding my dick. What would it feel like to have her hand on me? And what about the fucking? What would she look like? How would her voice sound as she sighed and groaned? Would she talk to me, tell me how it felt and tell me what to do? I swallowed heavily. "All right," I mumbled. "Yes." "Oh goody," Charlotte responded. She drained the vodka out of her glass and placed the empty tumbler on the table. "I'll advance you twenty pounds tomorrow," she continued, brisk and businesslike. She pointed at my longish hair. "We'll get you a haircut first thing. Then we'll go to Burton's and buy you a half-decent suit -- off the peg, you'll be on a probation period at first, but if you show promise, and as you progress we'll spend some money on some decent clothes. You're going to be pampered tomorrow, Warren," Charlotte smirked. She lit a cigarette and told me to stand up. Her eyes looked me up and down. "Manicure, pedicure and a shave," the woman added. "Early evening you'll bathe; I want you immaculate and scented for your guest. Nothing poncy thought, Warren. You're a nice big lad and well built I'd say, under your clothes." Charlotte grinned and added lewdly, "I don't just mean your cock either. I'd hazard that you're put together reasonably well." She reclined in her seat and put a forefinger to her chin. "We'll choose a nice aftershave for you, something manly and rugged." All of that made my head spin. I could just see me sat there like a great nancy in some hairdresser's chair getting my nails done. "I'll need you to be ready at eight tomorrow evening, Warren. A cab will pick you up then, so be ready on time. I'll arrange everything." It hit me then, I was going to sleep with a woman! "You mean it?" I asked stupidly, standing there with my arms hanging by my sides. "Really? Tomorrow?" A laugh tinkled from the woman opposite. "Yes, Warren. Really. Tomorrow. You're going to fuck a woman." It came to her, the significance of the date. "On Valentine's Day of all days!" She smoked and studied me with that feline stare. "How do you feel?" she asked. Shaking my head, I replied, "I ... I don't really know, Mrs Spenser. Scared and excited at the same time. It's like waiting at the dentist ... but nowt like the dentist. I dunno how to describe it." I looked into Charlotte's face. "I dunno if I can do it, Mrs Spenser. I'm scared witless!" Charlotte crushed out the half-smoked cigarette. She rose to her feet and walked towards me, lifting a hand to caress my cheek, her eyes held mine. "You'll be fine," Charlotte crooned. "Enjoy the anticipation, Warren. This is going to be a unique twenty-four hours for you, so enjoy it. Savour that feeling of butterflies in your tummy but don't be scared. The lady I've got in mind will be aware that it's your first time, she'll look after you and make it special for you." Charlotte's hand moved to my other cheek, the backs of her fingers sliding over my jaw. "She'll go slowly so you can savour each moment, every taste and texture of her body as she shows you how to kiss. "You'll kiss her mouth, her neck, her throat and her cunt. She'll take your cock in her hand and her mouth, and of course you'll also discover the heat of her between her legs. She'll be wet for you, Warren. When she sees your big dick she'll moisten quickly, and when she holds you in her hands she'll groan and tell you what a lovely big cock you have." "Mrs Spenser ..." I groaned, enthralled by Charlotte's description of what my future held. "Does all that sound good, Warren?" The woman kissed my cheek, a butterfly's wings against my skin. I gasped and pulled away when Charlotte's hand touched the bulge in my trousers. "You're big right now, aren't you?" she breathed, touching my cock again, pressing the flat of her palm against me. "Yes, Mrs Spenser," I sighed. The pressure of Charlotte's hand sent an arterial burst of lust through me and I made a clumsy lunge at her, my hands going to her waist as I tried to pull her close so I could kiss her mouth. The woman cried out and struggled against me. "Warren, no!" she yelled. We struggled for a few seconds until her second vehement refusal penetrated that heavy curtain of lust. "Stop it!" Charlotte cried out, moving her head this way and that as she tried to rebuff my unwelcome advances. In the end she slapped my face, gave me a stinging slap that made my ears ring. I stared at Charlotte, appalled at what I'd done, my hand at my cheek. "Mrs Spenser," I gasped. "I'm sorry ... I ... Oh, Mrs Spenser ..." Breathing heavily, Charlotte regarded me with wary eyes. She reached for her cigarettes and, sitting down, lit one. The woman dragged heavily and blew a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling. Waving the cigarette in the air, Charlotte said, "It was my fault, Warren. I'm the one who should be sorry. I took it too far. I took you to that place. You went a little insane on me for a moment." Her head tilted to one side. "But you can't ever allow that to happen again, especially not with a client. Never, Warren." I nodded, mortified by my actions. "I'm sorry, Mrs Spenser. I just got ..." Charlotte waved the hand with the cigarette again. "I understand, Warren. Truly, I do. But let's not dwell, let's concentrate on tomorrow." Four -- Initiation In my narrow bed that night I woke up frequently and entertained notions of just going to Charlotte's bedroom and begging her to let me fuck her. I thought about tugging at my cock, masturbating until I found some release from the torture the woman had subjected me to. "No wanking tonight," Charlotte had said when I went up the stairs to my room. "Save it for that lucky lady tomorrow evening. Give the woman her money's worth, Warren." Sleep came in fits and starts throughout that long night, and every time I did manage to doze I was plagued by erotic dreams where women with indistinct features rode my cock, breasts swaying while their insides gripped my shaft. Each time I dreamed, a woman with different coloured hair, bigger breasts, wearing stockings or completely bare would find her climax while my own orgasm was forbidden. In the morning, that Valentine's Day which dawned late but to a high, clear blue sky, I woke up less than refreshed. I took a quick bath in a freezing bathroom, cleaned my teeth and then brushed my hair. When I looked into the mirror, unshaven -- why bother since the barber would take care of that particular chore -- I wondered at the man I would see reflected back at me the following morning. My stomach flipped with the anticipation Charlotte had told me to enjoy. I liked the sensation; I was scared and excited, not quite aroused, not then, but as the day went on and my appointment grew closer, my cock thickened whenever I remembered the importance of that evening and what, hopefully, lay in store for me. I wondered at what the woman would look like. Would she be pretty or plain, sophisticated or less refined. Of course I wondered at her body and the size of her breasts and their shape and whether she'd be thin or rounded. After pulling on my trousers and buttoning my shirt I ventured downstairs and found Mrs Bradshaw at the stove while Charlotte smoked and sipped tea at the kitchen table. Following a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs and mushrooms and beans we left the house, with Mrs Bradshaw eyeing me oddly as though she knew something sordid about me when I left the kitchen. I felt a momentary rush of panic when the thought occurred to me that Mrs Bradshaw would be the one I'd break my duck with, but Charlotte only laughed, almost until tears came to her eyes she found the notion so funny. "Dear God, Warren," she spluttered when her mirth subsided enough to allow speech. "Alice is a lovely woman, an absolute treasure, but not exactly what I had in mind for you." She placed long fingers on my leg as the taxi took us towards town. "I'll organise someone I think you'll approve of, somebody in tune with the situation and what's required." She squeezed my leg just above the knee. "Don't worry, it will all be lovely. Let her take control and you just relax." For the rest of the day, with Charlotte's advance of twenty pounds in my pocket, the woman invested in an off the peg suit, sniffed with impatience when I balked at the manicure and pedicure, watched while I had a haircut and shave at an up-market salon and then treated me to afternoon tea in one of those posh cafes. "You bathe and dress in your suit, and be ready for the taxi at eight o'clock -- prompt. I'm working tonight, a Valentine's orgy for some City bankers, so I've got to go out." She kissed my cheek. "If tonight goes well, Warren, you could be working for me on a regular basis very soon. Nervous?" I nodded and replied. "Yes." Charlotte squeezed my hand and kissed my cheek. "You'll be fine," she reassured me. "Enjoy it." And that was it. I was on my own. I dressed carefully, taking care with my tie and making sure my collar sat over it neatly at the back. Ten minutes before the hour and I was ready, and the agony of those last minutes ticking by had me pacing the room. Eventually I heard the toot of a car horn outside and parted the curtains to look outside. Seeing the cab actually there sent a thrill of shock through me. "This is really going to happen," I muttered. I balked then, deciding on the spur of the moment that I couldn't go through with it. This kind of thing just didn't happen, and especially not to me. My hand was halfway to my collar, inches away from undoing my tie and unravelling my future. The money would have to be given back to Mrs Spenser, I'd have nothing for rent and would be forced to leave and face God knew what. Despite facing destitution and homelessness at such a young age I couldn't face meeting the anonymous woman at the as yet unknown rendezvous; the prospect made me weak at the knees and my limbs tremble. Then the taxi tooted a second time and I knew that if I didn't leave immediately, if I didn't stop fannying around like a big girl's blouse -- as my mother used to say -- I'd never know what magic might lay in wait for me. Twenty minutes later and I found myself on the street in front of a large, detached house in Mill Hill. "It's all taken care of, mate," the driver had informed me when I went to pay the fair. "On account." He winked at me. "I do a lot of runs for the lady, see." The man tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. "You go inside an' enjoy yerself." I watched the appropriately red brake lights of the taxi wink once when it drove away and negotiated the roundabout at the end of the road. Then, feeling the cold air bite through my suit jacket I walked towards my destiny. The front door opened before I even knocked. I blinked several times when I found myself confronted by an unexpected figure -- one I knew. "Come in, Warren," Mrs Bradshaw said, her breath smoking as she held the door open for me. "It's freezing out there." "Mrs Bradshaw," I blurted, surprised. "That's me name, don't wear it out," the woman said. "Now come inside before you end up frozen to the step." I stepped into the spacious hallway and Mrs Bradshaw closed the door behind me. "Now," she continued, "the lady's waiting. Can I get you anything before I show you to the room?" The woman looked at me expectantly, the hint of a smile twitching the corners of her mouth. "I expect you might like to wash your hands," she offered euphemistically. "Please," I replied, reminded of the time only a couple of days before when Mrs Bradshaw had walked in on me as I pissed into the toilet. This time, with the door bolted against interruptions, I peed my nerves away and, after washing my hands using the pleasantly scented soap next to the sink, opened the door to find Mrs Bradshaw hovering a few yards away. "Well," she said. "I'll show you upstairs, sir." The sir threw me a little, but then I realised that Mrs Bradshaw was in professional mode, working in a world that, although alien to me at that moment, would soon become familiar. Still, at that stage, as I followed Mrs Bradshaw's broad beam up to the second floor of the big house, my knees felt watery and there was a greasy slide slopping around in my stomach. We halted outside a door, with me almost stumbling into my guide I was so nervous. "Don't look so bleedin' worried," Mrs Bradshaw hissed at me. "Fer gawd's sake, smile. You look like a flippin' undertaker with yer fizzog like that. Anyone would think you was off t'be hanged." I swallowed heavily and tried to compose myself. Mrs Bradshaw tutted and rolled her eyes. Then she knocked at the door. "Mr Baker," she announced after opening the door and taking a step inside. "Hello, Warren," Charlotte said, smiling gently at me when I walked into the room. "Thank you, Mrs Bradshaw," the blonde said while I stood there and gawped, my mouth hanging open. "Sorry about the charade, Warren," Charlotte said quietly when the door snicked shut. "You weren't expecting me, eh? But I thought I'd give you a baptism of fire. You'll never be as nervous as you were tonight again. The worst is over, darling." "Mrs Spenser," I mumbled, as though I'd made some kind of momentous, world-changing discovery. "But ... but you're meant to be working." "Please, Warren, call me Charlotte." She smiled at me again, moving away from the door towards a huge bed. Charlotte, wearing a flowing oriental robe belted at the waist, moved beyond the bed and went to a mirrored dressing table of some elaborate, antique design in a varnished oxblood red. She lit a cigarette and turned to face me. "There is no bankers' orgy tonight, Warren. Or at least not one that I organised. I have a few girls out running around tonight, Valentine's is a popular time, but all the arrangements have been in place for a few days now." Charlotte grinned, adding, "Which gives me a little time to indulge myself. Drink?" she offered. Warren Baker's Valentine My voice sounded creaky in my own ears when I replied, "Can I try a vodka and lemonade please?" Charlotte regarded me with a curious expression for a long moment. "Of course, darling," she replied eventually. "Do come in though, you can't stand by the door all night." I walked wooden-legged further into the room. "What's going on, Mrs Spenser?" I asked as I sat on the edge of the bed. "This is the beginning of your enlightenment, Warren," Charlotte replied as she walked towards me, her gown sighing as she moved. "But don't sit on the bed like an angler on the bank of a river, darling. Take off your jacket and relax in one of those chairs." She stood close to me and sipped her own vodka. "When you entertain a lady in future, Warren," Charlotte added. "You'll be expected to ask her if she would like a drink. You need to take charge. The lady is likely to be nervous, so remember what that feels like. Try to make her at ease, be nice to her ... attentive." It seemed like a hell of a lot of work to me, too much to remember, but I nodded and tested my first vodka and lemonade. Charlotte walked away and settled into one of the two chairs, both of which were the same whorled, elaborate design and colour as the dressing table. "It will all make sense soon enough, Warren," Charlotte continued as she drew on her cigarette. "Don't try to take it all in at once. After all," she cried, her voice rising dramatically, "this is a very special night for you." With the cigarette smouldering between her fingers, the glass in her other hand, Charlotte deliberately opened her thighs so the patterned kimono she wore slipped away to reveal her legs. "A night for love, darling," she added in a husky voice that made my cock twitch. My eyes went to the dark stockings and the shadow at the junction of Charlotte's thighs. I gasped at the contrast between the dark material and creamy flesh. Charlotte smoked and eyed me in silence, her eyes feline. "You're beautiful," I murmured without realising. Charlotte chuckled. "Thank you, darling," she replied. "Would you like to see me out of this robe?" "Yes please!" I exclaimed, suddenly eager as my penis thickened. She stood up and placed the glass on a delicate table, her cigarette she placed in the grooved recess at the edge of an ashtray. Charlotte watched my face as she loosened the belt on the robe and it fell open. Then, while I stared at the first naked woman I'd ever seen, she let the gown slip from her shoulders. "What do you think?" Charlotte asked after retrieving her cigarette. She looked incredible, and even now, years and God knows how many other women later, the recollection of Charlotte's near nudity -- after all she wore stockings and garter belt and heels for the full erotic effect -- still provokes a reaction in my penis. "You're beautiful," I repeated, agog at the truth of my statement before my eyes. Charlotte smiled in a way that told me I'd pleased her. "I'm glad you approve," she breathed. "Would you like to touch me?" I think I may have emitted a tiny whine at that point. Did I want to touch her? Jesus, yes! Charlotte extinguished her cigarette, bending at the waist so her sizeable breasts swung before coming to where I still sat on the bed. She posed in front of me, hands on her hips. "You'll crease your suit," she murmured. But instead of allowing me to stand and remove my jacket and trousers, and shirt and tie, Charlotte took the glass from my hand and placed it on the table next to hers. Then she returned to me and took both my hands. She lifted my them and placed my palms over the firm yet softly yielding flesh of her breasts. "Feel me," Warren," she sighed. "Touch me, all of me, run your hands over my body." I squeezed her gently before I ran my hands down her torso, one travelling over the unfamiliar contours of her waist and hip while the other traced a line over the softness of Charlotte's stomach. I reached around and kneaded one buttock while the other hand remained motionless on her hip. While I did that, Charlotte pushed her fingers through my recently shorn hair. "Take your time, darling." The woman muttered. Savour me." She leaned in and kissed the top of my head, which caused me to look up at her face. "Do you want to kiss?" "I ... I don't know how," I replied, my hands still on her body. "Not properly." With a soft smile, her eyes gleaming in the low, diffused light from a standard lamp like a sentinel in the corner of the room, Charlotte murmured, "I'll teach you, I'll teach you everything." She stepped back a pace and held out her hands. I took hold of her hands and she helped me to my feet. "Kiss me slowly at first, Warren. Don't go at me when the desire takes hold of you ... and it will, darling, trust me. Control yourself, don't succumb to the urge to throw me on the bed and just fuck me." Charlotte grinned. "There will be a time for that. Some other time, but not tonight, tonight is about romance and a special, unforgettable experience for you. "You're a lucky man, Warren. You've got me for your first time. A lot of lads only manage a few fumbled minutes of decidedly average, even downright disappointing sex in some dark alley. Look at you, you've got an experienced -- a very, very experienced -- woman to teach you how to make love properly. Tonight we make love, Warren, tomorrow morning you can ride the fucking arse off me and send me home bow-legged ... I'd enjoy that." Charlotte paused and grinned again. "You'll see, I'll help you to recognise when a lady wants to be fucked as though you're a sailor on shore leave after a year at sea, and when she just wants to be held." She gave a little laugh and looked at my face. "And now I'll shut up and give you your first kiss. Charlotte moved close and tilted her face up to mine. Despite her shoes and their lethal heels, I still had the height to look down at Charlotte's beautiful, upturned face. I saw her lips slightly parted in anticipation of my mouth on hers, and I ducked my head slowly, my eyes never leaving the green of Charlotte's eyes until our lips met. Her arms came up to lace gently around my neck as her mouth opened up to me, her tongue sliding over my own. Charlotte sighed and moved her body against mine, gently pressing against me while my cock hardened inside my trousers and I tasted the blend of cigarettes and alcohol -- the essence of which has aroused me ever since I experienced it for the first time in that slow, lingering, and intimate first kiss. My hands moved along Charlotte's slim back, down along the curve of her until both palms rested on her buttocks. That's when it almost overwhelmed me, the wave of lust that I'd experienced the previous evening just before I'd made my ill-advised lunge at my landlady. "I can feel your cock," Charlotte murmured during a brief lull in the kissing. "I want to see it soon, darling. "I want to hold it and stroke it while I watch your face." We kissed again, me fighting the desire to throw Charlotte onto the bed and bayonet her cunt with my dick. "I'm going to suck you," she sighed. "I'm going to suck you and sit on your cock and make slow, toe-curling love to you. I'll take you to the brink and then let you simmer. You can lick my pussy, Warren. I'll show you how to please me with your mouth and tongue as well as your big dick." "Mrs Spenser," I groaned, my fingers clasping at her flesh. "I just want to put it in." She broke away from me and walked away. Collecting her drink, Charlotte sipped at it and eyed me over the rim of the glass. "Take your clothes off," Charlotte ordered, as curt a headmistress. I blinked but began to strip. "Fold them neatly," she instructed. "Don't fling them on the bloody floor like an adolescent. "Be graceful and elegant, darling. Be neat." Chastened but still yearning for the place between Charlotte's thighs, that mystery covered by her sparse, blonde thatch of pubic hair, I took of my clothes and carefully folded each item as I disrobed. My suit I placed on a hanger that Charlotte directed me to in a wardrobe before, finally, I stood in front of her, naked with my cock arcing semi-tumescent, thick and heavy in front of me. "Bloody hell but that's an impressive fucking thing you've got there, Warren. I've seen some big cocks before and yours is up there with the big boys. Some of the black men are massive, but yours is just the same in white!" Charlotte gave a small shrug of her shoulders, adding, "But there's no use in just having a big dick. If you go lumbering in with that towards some poor, frightened girl you'll never get it in. You need finesse and style and fingers and a tongue. You learn from me, Warren, and you'll never be short of female company or a few quid in your pocket." I went to her when she beckoned. Charlotte curled her fingers around my girth and tested the weight of me in her palm. Of course my cock grew in her hand as I gasped and groaned and stared down at the sight of my dick in Charlotte's hand, the length of me laying along her forearm. "I can't believe this is happening," I breathed. Believe it," Charlotte replied, her hand moving over my length. She took hold of me with both hands and massaged me from balls to tip. "Kiss me again, Warren," Charlotte murmured as she worked at my length. "Are you getting excited?" the woman asked when the kiss broke. I heard Charlotte's voice catch an octave higher than usual before I replied with a croak of my own. "Yes, Mrs Spenser." "You calling me Mrs Spenser is turning me on," Charlotte revealed. "It's so very formal, like you're a butler or a waiter I've seduced." She gave a low, dark chuckle, adding, "Or you could be my best friend's son. I'm getting excited too," she continued. "Feel me, feel how fucking hot I am." I found Charlotte's diction when she used profanity paradoxical, a complete contradiction to her style and deportment and the image she created during everyday life. At the same time, the way she pronounced those filthy words sent a shiver of desire through me. Posh birds, I found out with experience, were dirtier than all the rest when they let go. I gasped when Charlotte guided my fingers between her legs and I felt the slick confusing folds of her sex for the first time. My fingers came away glistening with her. "Mrs Spenser ..." I breathed. "What ...?" "It's your big cock, Warren. My cunt knows I'm going to get fucked by that brute of a penis so it's getting wet and slippery to take you all in." I groaned. "I want to put it in now, Mrs Spenser. I don't want romance or to make love. I just want to fuck you." Charlotte's eyes gleamed while she held my fingers tight against her vulva and squirmed against the digits. "I suppose we could always make love later," she said, her chest rising and falling quickly as she began to breathe heavily. "If you really want to just fuck me ... I suppose I could let you." She leaned in and kissed my mouth hard, and I yelped when I felt the sharp nip of Charlotte's teeth on my bottom lip. "This is one of those times that a woman doesn't need finesse, Warren." Her hands, both of them, cranked up and down the length of me. "This could be one of those occasions when I just need to get fucked hard and fast by a huge fucking cock." She glared a challenge at me with her eyes. "Are you man enough to put that inside me?" Charlotte's jaw clenched and she hissed at me through gritted teeth. "Well, are you? Do you think you could keep from coming long enough for me to climax? I think you'll squirt jizm all over my tummy before you're even in." The truth was she had a point. I'd abstained from masturbation the previous night, and the long day of anticipation only served to exacerbate the explosive potential in my genitalia. But I was in that place where the craziness lives. I didn't care. All I felt was an overwhelming need, an intense urgency, primal, instinctive -- I had to be inside this woman, totally. I wanted to posses her with my mouth, to kiss her and lick her tongue while I fucked into her. Did I care about her needs, her sensitivities? Did I buggery, all I cared about was plunging my dick into her. Undiluted, natural lust had taken control of me and I could only function on a primal level. I had no capacity to think, my mind only concentrating on my primitive need. Charlotte told me later that I growled at her, bared my teeth and moaned before I picked her up bodily and, with a yelp from her, tossed her onto the bed. She said I pushed her legs apart and stared at her while I jacked my cock. She held herself open to me. "I splayed my labia and showed you my bubbling cunt," is how she described her actions. And I can see her doing it too, I can hear her. Charlotte folded her legs at the knees and offered her sex to me. "Come on," she panted, her own desire breaking in her voice. "Put it in. Come on," she goaded, "give me all you've got." I managed ten to a dozen deep, urgent thrusts before the inevitable and irreversible surge began. "Fuck," I blurted. "Oh ... Oh ..." I even called her Mrs Spenser before I pulled out of her, the first splash spraying over Charlotte's stomach. Without knowing what I was doing I cranked at my cock and let the jizm flick everywhere. The stuff squirted out of me and spattered across Charlotte's body so that she was soon covered in dollops of the hot stuff like a plasterer's radio on a building site. I dimly recall hearing Charlotte cry out, apparently disappointed, but what she'd forgotten was the ardour of youth and, heedless of my own spunk splashed all over Charlotte's stomach and breasts, with a pool of the stuff glistening in the hollow in her throat, I held my dick in my fist and plunged into her again. "You fucked at me like a machine," Charlotte told me the next day, her eyes rolling as she recalled my "Damn fine performance", as she put it. "I thought it was a piston boring my cunny, not a cock." And I kept at her. Apparently when I came the second time I sprayed a watered down version of spunk directly onto her pussy before she clambered away across the bed. "Sweet Jesus," Charlotte sighed when I lay there on my back and held my cock upright. "Is there no end?" Nevertheless, regardless of her apparent reluctance in her words, Charlotte came back to me and straddled my thighs. Holding my waggling dick perpendicular she rubbed the tip, still oozing ejaculate, between the gooey folds of her vulva. Then, as she rubbed at her clit, Charlotte rode me until she climaxed in a vehement and vocal paroxysm of thrashing limbs, her squeals and groans turning into one long, drawn out moan as she fell from me. I watched her as she lay there in an ungainly heap of limbs, chest heaving while she recovered slowly from her intense climax. "Can I fuck you from behind?" I asked bravely, my confidence boosted by the fact I seemed to be holding up rather well. Charlotte looked at my size as I cranked my fist up and down the length of my cock. She wiped a hand across her brow. "Just let me take these bloody shoes off," she panted. Divested of her shoes, garter belt and stockings, my new lover knelt on the bed with her arse in the air. I looked at the rounded cheeks and the oyster of her puffy labia peeping at me before I rubbed the blunt knob-end of my cock between the sticky flaps and nudged her opening. "Oh, fuck," Charlotte groaned when I slid into her. "That's so fucking lovely." Charlotte's fingernails, long and scarlet and lethal, scraped at the keel of my dick as I fucked into her. She rubbed at her clit and came again, and this time, even as she groaned and squirmed, I pushed at her arse so she collapsed forward onto the pillows. Then, after hauling Charlotte Spenser by the hips until I'd arranged her limbs to suit me, I eased into her while she lay on her back and she stared up at me with full moons for eyes. "I love you," I sighed, holding myself over her on straight arms while I gazed into that green stare. "Oh, bloody hell," she replied as her hips began to move. "Oh bloody fucking hell." And then I made love to her. I loved Charlotte until I sobbed and called out her name and poured all I had left into her. Epilogue Charlotte taught me well. She took the rough hewn youth and smoothed away the parochial edges to leave me as urbane and sophisticated as anyone of her own, original social class. I worked for her and with her over the next sixteen years that came along, and I always loved her, ever since that first night -- Valentine's night, 1972. Her father died in 1984, but didn't leave the estate to Charlotte, not all of it, although she did get a tidy chunk worth a mid-sized lottery win which, with her acute sense for business, she invested wisely. The money didn't change things much, Charlotte still worked, running the business and occasionally accompanying me if there was a requirement. It was odd, but although I loved Charlotte Spenser I was never cursed with jealousy if I saw her entertaining another man. Somehow I could compartmentalise the Charlotte I held in my heart from the woman who I'd seen offering her pussy to someone else's dick. Charlotte suffered a heart attack in 1992; she survived but was struck again in '98. Mrs Bradshaw retired on a generous pension that Charlotte Spenser arranged when she inherited the money. The law caught up with me, not for anything sinister, just simple tax evasion. I'd put away a goodly fortune over the years and of course the nosey buggers of Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs sniffed me out. So, there I was, just out of nick, the doors behind as I stood beneath that high sky on the anniversary of when it all began for me. A car pulled up, a big car, a Bentley, and a uniformed chauffeur promptly jumped out and opened the rear door for me. "Good to see you, Mr Baker," the man said. "Thanks, Marcus," I replied before bending to enter the plush vehicle. "Hello, darling," my wife said in greeting, her green eyes shining as she smiled gently and passed me an envelope containing a card -- just as she had done every year since we first made love. "Happy Valentine's, Warren, shall we direct Marcus to the nearest decent public house? I could just use a Vodka and lemonade." My wife had given up the cigarettes after her second heart attack, but she still took a tipple on special occasions. "Sounds excellent, Charlotte," I replied as Marcus closed the door.