Your erotic stories

“Paul, would you like to go and house-sit for Aunty Jean on Friday evening?” his mother asked.

Engaged in trying to write a tutorial paper on the computer for next morning – a paper he should have been prepared two days before – Paul asked suspiciously, “Why?”

“Oh well, the girl she usually has can’t make it, and Jean’s booked a seat for the opera, and as she’ll probably be home late she says you can stay overnight.”

He had always been wary of Aunt Jean. She had seemed to him very serious and imperious. Nevertheless, as Paul had reached that age when he was very conscious of females, he was reluctantly prepared to at least concede that at thirty two Aunt Jean was a handsome woman in a statuesque and stately manner.

Tall and always elegantly dressed, she had a fine figure. Her face with its clearly defined features was framed in a mass of dark hair, but it was her bright emerald coloured eyes that disturbed him the most. When, with her eyelids partially masking those green orbs, she focused on him, he felt as if they were not so much looking at him, as dissecting him.

She wasn’t even really his aunt, but had been a friend of his mother’s before she got married and they had worked together. He’d heard that Jean had once got married, and in short order had then got divorced.

“If she looked at him like she looks at me,” thought Paul, “I’ll bet it was him who divorced her.”

Apart from the honorary title of “Aunt” she was also Paul’s godmother, and although she had never given him the religious instruction that in theory godmothers were supposed to give, she always remembered the anniversary of his baptism, plus birthdays and Christmas. Her gifts had always been lavish, so despite his wariness he had always tried to keep on the good side of Jean.

He had tentatively made an arrangement to go out with a girl on Friday evening, but his mother added the magic words, “She’s willing to pay.”

“Pay;” Paul, as a student was always in need of extra money so he suddenly decided that perhaps the girl wasn’t really important after all and he could house-sit.

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

He returned to his work on the computer, and was dimly aware of his father asking his mother, “Who’s she got in tow at the moment?”

“No one as far as I know,” his mother replied, “She told me she’d given up on men.”

His father’s response was, “Humph; or they’ve given up on her,” and then he returned to reading a magazine and his mother to her ironing, and there was silence.

On Friday evening, Paul, carrying a small case containing his weekend study work, a change of underwear and the bottom half of his summer pyjamas, rang Jean’s doorbell.

Always well dressed, when she opened the door Paul was momentarily captivated. She was wearing a slack suit the colour of which matched the green of her eyes and at the same time it seemed to enhance the gleam of her dark hair.

The suit was very simple in its lines and moulded nicely to her figure. She wore no jewellery and very little makeup, and Paul, despite his slightly jaundiced view of Jean, decided that she was about to turn a few male heads at the opera that night, that is, until she focused those penetrating eyes on one of them, in which case the admiring male would probably wither up.

She said, Hello Paul,” and then silently motioned for him to enter.

He’d been inside her house before but always in his mother’s company. Typical of Jean the place was tastefully furnished, but in a style a few decades behind the times. He’d heard his mother refer to it as “The Scandinavian style” – the plain pinewood design.

On the walls were paintings by what Paul later learned was called the Impressionist School. He also learned that they weren’t “the real thing” because even well-off Aunt Jean could never have afforded the originals; she was in fact quite comfortable financially, but not quite as comfortable as that.

Since she and her mother first got to know each other Jean had climbed the public service promotional ladder with considerable ease, and was what people referred to as, “A tough negotiator” and “A high flyer.” Paul could readily agree with the “Tough” bit.

In her usual concise manner Jean told him – or rather instructed – where food and drink were to be found, where he was to sleep, and showed him the computer in her study. She also told him how to use the television and DVD, but added, “I suppose you’ll be too busy with your studies to be bothered with those.”

“Dream on,” he thought, but smiled ingenuously and said, “Yes, I suppose I will.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it; I’ll be back about half past eleven.” With that she departed.

Although Paul had been in the house before he had never seen the bedrooms or even the kitchen. Since he had the place to himself he decided to satisfy youthful curiosity and take a look around; his look around included poking into drawers and cupboards.

He had come to the conclusion that there was nothing exceptional to be found until he opened some drawers in Jean’s bedroom. First to come into view were some items of underwear that he had never imagined Jean wearing; not that he’d thought much about her underwear, but if he did he had always imagined it to be made of knitted barbed wire.

The bras and panties were of the flimsiest and definitely see-through. He tried to picture Jean wearing these delicate items, and after a minute or two of straining his imagination he discovered that he’d got a modified image of her. “Yes, I suppose with her figure she’d look fairly good,” he managed to grudgingly concede.

He went on to open the drawers in her bedside table. First to catch his eye was something that was obviously a length of solid plastic shaped like a penis. He knew what it was and exclaimed out loud, “My God, she uses a dildo!”

Next to capture his attention was an electrical implement. It had a small rounded head and he noted that it had different speed settings. He plugged it in and switched it on to its slowest setting. It emitted a low buzzing sound and the head started to vibrate. He tried the other speed settings and noticed the head vibrated with ever increasing rapidity.

A dildo he knew about, but what this strange devise was he had no idea. “Wonder what she uses that for,” he meditated.

Failing to find an answer he shrugged and put the implement back in the drawer. His research into Jean’s drawers had at least given him a modified, more human view of Jean, especially in the light of the dildo. “She actually has sexual feelings,” he concluded, “Amazing!”

He ended his exploring and made a tentative decision to get on with the work assignment he had brought with him on as floppy disc. He took the floppy disc out of its case, but still trying to delay the evil moment when he must start work, he wandered round the lounge looking idly at the paintings. It was then his attention was drawn to one he couldn’t remember seeing before.

The painting was of a nude woman. She seemed to be standing in a bedroom. Behind her was a dressing table and to one side a bed with the covers drawn partially back. She was a tall woman with a superb figure. Her arms were upraised, her hands behind her head, and she seemed to be doing something with her luxuriant dark hair.

The raised arms had the effect of lifting her breasts to make them more prominent. They were not large, “About the size of a couple of half grapefruits,” Paul decided, but they were a delectable ivory colour and capped by very delicious nipples looking rather like knolls of strawberry ice cream.

“Wouldn’t mind getting a taste of those,” he muttered.

Paul, whose knowledge of the female anatomy was limited to the occasional fumbling and groping with the girls when he had been in high school, was mesmerised by this naked woman.

He had already been stirred by Jean’s underwear and dildo, and now he started to get an incipient erection.

He had a feeling that he had seen this woman and the room somewhere before, but no matter how he trawled his memory he could not remember where.

Finally he gave up, and now, with his erection close to full-blown, his choice lay between homework and masturbating. Probably to his amazement, and certainly to anyone else who knew him had they been present, study won.

Having arrived at this momentous decision, he went so far as to enter the study and insert the floppy disc in the computer. The study was a rather forbidding place as far as Paul was concerned; it was lined with bookshelves containing works that ranged through art, history, literature and law.

Surveying this alarming environment he found another reason to delay the moment when he would commence work.

“I’ll have a shower and change into my pyjamas,” he decided; “Might as well be comfortable.”

For some reason he could not define, he found that during the course of the shower he contemplated naked Jean standing there caressing her body with fragrant unguents from the Mystic East. He had read that phrase somewhere but really had little idea what fragrant unguents might be, and was fairly shaky about the location of the Mystic East, but it sounded tantalising.

Showered and clad in his pyjama shorts, he at last settled in front of the computer, booted it up, clicked in the floppy and sat staring at the task in front of him.

It was a tutorial assignment on the subject, “Creation versus Evolution.” Certainly they had covered the subject in lectures, but of late his attention had been focused on a pretty girl with dark curly hair and large breasts called Judy. She was not the girl he’d had the tentative arrangement with; had she been even the magic word “Pay” might not have lured him to house-sit for Jean. But the problem was, with Judy present in the lecture theatre, the words of the lecturer had failed to penetrate Paul’s lubricious contemplations.

Now he sat staring at the single four lined paragraph he had already spent two hours at home on. He sighed and tried to recall any fragment of the lecturer’s discourse that might have penetrated his lust barrier. Nothing emerged from his grey cells, and after ten minutes of increasing desperation he went into the room set aside as his bedroom for the night, opened his case and took out a small book on the subject.

On his way back to the computer he stepped aside to the fridge to help himself to a bowl of ice cream. It happened that there was both vanilla and strawberry ice cream. With the picture of the nude woman in mind, and in a frivolous frame of mind, he put a large dollop of vanilla into the bowl and with a spoon moulded it into the rough image of a female breast. On top of this mammary mound he placed a small lump of strawberry ice cream and facetiously entitled it, “Strawberry Nipple,” which he carried back to the work station.

While spooning ice cream into his mouth he started to read the book, and when he had scraped out from the bowl the last dregs of Strawberry Nipple he attempted to type out what he hoped was a paraphrase of some of the book’s contents.

The purpose of the paraphrasing was of course to try and persuade the tutor that the work was his own, but after scanning the two further brief paragraphs he had written he felt that his subterfuge was unlikely to go undetected.

Having reached this point he gave up, telling himself, “I’ll get down to it at home over the weekend.” After all, it was Friday night, and he was entitled to some recreation.

Negligently leaving the computer screen still glowing, he retired to the lounge and switching on the television set he settled back on the capacious cushion strewn divan to view the TV offerings.

Over the course of half an hour he switched from channel to channel desperately seeking some programme that would meet his needs. He passed over an evangelist who promised financial prosperity to those who were “Born again,” and even more speedily turned off a documentary allegedly explaining Einstein’s theory of relativity.

Advertisement riddled soapies and sit-coms momentarily caught his attention, especially if they concerned nubile and full-breasted young women; but despite his flippant frame of mind these lowest common denominator inanities began to pall.

“What’s the use of looking if you can’t touch,” he thought, “it’s like trying to eat chocolate with the paper still wrapped round it, or,” he added grinning to himself, “like having Strawberry Nipple in a carton you can’t get open.”

It was about nine thirty by then and for want of something better to do he got up and wandered over to the picture of the nude. She certainly was a very desirable looking female in a Junoesque way; “Better than most of those on television,” he thought, as he gazed at the delectable breasts and nipples.

He did however feel somewhat cheated by the fact that at her groin only a suggestion of pubic hair could be seen. He had never seen a female sex organ, although he had felt one that belonged to a girl when he was still at school. He had wanted to look then, but by dint of some shyness on her part and the signal that the lunch break was over, he never got to view the mystery of the female.

As he stood captivated by the painting he strove again to recall where he had seen her, or someone like her before. Not, of course, that he would have seen her naked, but the hair and face, they….

“Do you like the picture?” It was Jean’s voice, and he spun round in fright. She had entered quietly and since he was so engrossed in the painting he hadn’t heard her come up behind him.

“God you gave me a fright,” he gasped.

“She smiled ominously and said “Sorry,” then repeated her question, “Do you like the picture?”

Paul felt himself to be at a double disadvantage; first because he had been so startled by Jean’s return, and secondly, and perhaps more embarrassingly, his contemplation of the painting had given him another erection. He had been thinking about going to bed to masturbate. Unfortunately his skimpy pyjamas could do little to hide the protuberance that now jutted out from his groin.

Jean had a slightly mocking look on her face as she asked yet again, “Do you like it?”

“I…er…yes, she’s…ah…she’s very beautiful.”

“You think so?”

“Yes…yes…she’s lovely.”

Recovering slightly Paul said, “I thought you weren’t coming home until after eleven.”

Jean shrugged her slender shoulders and replied, “The performance was lousy so I left at the interval. I thought I might as well come and chat with you. After all, we’ve never talked much, and we might get to know each other better.”

It was true they had never talked much, and when they did it had been Jean asking questions, usually about progress in his studies. If his answers were satisfactory, that was where their talk usually ended; if, however, Jean decided his answers weren’t acceptable she wasn’t averse to instructing him on how he might mend his ways.

Not wishing to engage in one of these question and answer sessions, and not being very much in favour of the idea of “getting to know each other better,” Paul said, “I was just going to bed.”

“Oh, surely not, it’s early yet. I’ll just go and change and we can have a little talk.”

Without giving Paul a chance to protest she left him. He turned his attention back to the nude painting. This made his situation even more difficult because looking at her his already swollen male member stretched out another half inch and he could feel a sticky substance oozing out of his urethra. He badly needed to relieve himself of this discomfiting witness to his sexual arousal, and what he didn’t need was one of Jean’s “little talks.”

He was still gazing wretchedly at the painting, but this time Jean did not take him by surprise. He turned as he heard the shish of her feet on the carpet. It was then that he was not so much surprised as stunned.

Jean stood before him clad only in her panties and bras; the ivory breasts seen through the lace of her bras; the pink nipples with their deeper pink aureoles and…and of course Jean’s long dark hair; now he knew.

He gestured vaguely at the painting and stammered, “I-I-it’s y-you.”

“Yes,” Jean said in a low voice, “I’m glad you appreciate it.”

She was looking at him, her gleaming green eyes narrowed; they seemed to be absorbing every detail of him.

“Well, you are a big boy now aren’t you? I hadn’t realised.”

Neither had Paul realised. For most of his life he had been used to looking up at tall Aunt Jean, now he noted that he was more than eye to eye with her.

“A-a-am I,” he stuttered, thinking that Jean was referring to his height. Then trying to pretend that he hadn’t noticed Jean’s near nudity he plunged on, “The…the…er…the painting m-m-must have c-cost a lot.”

She laughed lightly and said, “It depends on what you mean by ‘cost a lot’.”

“Oh…ah…er…a lot of money.”

“Actually it didn’t cost me a cent.”

“The artist did it for nothing?”

“Not exactly.”

Not knowing what else to say Paul blurted out, “Oh.”

“You see he wanted to paint me in the nude.”

“Oh.”

“So we negotiated.”

“Negotiated?”

“Yes, he’s a good artist and I wanted to recompense him, so we agreed on a mutually satisfying way to pay him.

“Oh?”

“Yes…oh, I see, you don’t understand. Do take a careful look at the painting and you’ll see what I mean.”

Paul obediently turned to look at picture, trying to work out where payment came into it. He couldn’t see where it came in, and he turned with a questioning frown on his face.

“You don’t understand? No, perhaps you’re too inexperienced. Well take a look at the bed and tell me what you see.”

He looked again and said, “Well, the covers are partly turned back.”

“Does that tell you how I paid him?”

“No… unless…unless you mean…no of course you don’t.”

“Oh dear, and I thought you young people are supposed to be so sexually sophisticated these days. I had sexual intercourse with him after every sitting you silly boy.”

“Y-y-you…you did!”

“Yes, we had to have quite a few sessions to complete the painting; quite gratifying in a way.”

Paul was almost goggling at her; “In a way…w-what…?”

“Yes, it was a pity about him because he was such a nice looking man, but he wasn’t willing to meet some of my more special needs, so when the painting was finished so was he as far as I was concerned.”

The vision of Jean climbing into bed with the artist had further aroused Paul, and his penis was throbbing almost painfully as his pre-cum started to stain his pyjamas.

Jean looked at him shrewdly and said, “Have you ever been with a woman?”

“B-been w-with?”

“Sexually, you silly boy…have you ever had sexual intercourse?”

For a moment Paul considered relating to her his many non-existent sexual exploits, but thought better of it. “Well…I…er…sort of.”

Her eyes focused on his now glaringly obvious erection. She stepped close to him, her body almost touching his.

“You know, I think I’d like to make a man of you,” Jean said in a low provocative voice.

Jean came even closer and he breathed in a subtle but tantalising perfume. She ran the pink tip of her tongue over her lips, and then kissed him lightly. He felt firm breasts pressing against his bare chest and her naked belly against his.

“You’d like to make love with a woman, a real woman, wouldn’t you, Paul?”

“I…er…yes…no…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Then you’ll have to find out through experience, won’t you.”

“I…I….” He felt her hand slip into the top of his pyjama shorts and then her fingers round his penis.

She gasped and murmured, “My God, you really are a big boy, let me see.”

She tugged down his shorts and they slipped to the floor. She stepped back a little and looked at the man flesh she held in her hand. He heard her intake of breath, then, “Oh yes…yes…darling…so…big…so big…”

Paul could not mistake what she was referring to this time. The problem was he had no way of knowing whether he was big or not. He had never had the opportunity to make a comparative study of male organs.

“A-am I?”

“Yes, you are, darling, and so nice and hard, so I think we ought to do something about it, don’t you?”

She gave him no time to reply, and started to masturbate him, slowing manipulating his foreskin over the head of his penis.

“I think you’re going to come very quickly,” she said teasingly, “and we don’t want to waste all that lovely sperm, do we.”

“Der…d-d-don’t we…ah…ah…oh…”

She eased him over to the divan and then said, “Lie down and leave it all to aunty;” then laughing lightly she went on, “she’s going to make you feel better.”

She put her hands behind her back and undid the clip of her bras and then shrugged them off. Her panties followed them onto the floor.

Recumbent, Paul, insofar as he was capable of taking in anything, now had a clear view of her breasts and the wisp of pubic hair that, beginning at her mons, ran down into her groin. He could see the plump lips of her vulva where they began just below her mons.

Jean sat astride him, her sex organ poised above his pulsating length. “No play this time,” she said in a deep throated voice, “just let aunty corrupt you.”

Fascinated Paul watched as she slowly lowered herself onto him. As his penis head touched her outer lips and slipped through to her soft wet inner lips, he groaned.

“You like that, darling.”

“Yes…oh yes…”

“Then you’ll like this even more.”

She dropped down on him, letting him enter her vaginal tunnel. He felt the soft, moist warmth of her femaleness and the clinging walls of her vagina. As she took his full length into her she smiled down at him and said in a slightly shaky voice, “A lovely tight fit, isn’t it? I wasn’t sure I could take all of you.”

Paul was so lost in that paradise of her female mystery that he could only give yet another groan.

As Jean started to ride up and down on him, almost pulling him right out of her, then plunging down on him again, further sounds were drawn out of him; “Hah…hah…hah..” in rhythm with her every downward thrust.

She must have sensed that he was about to ejaculate and her movements became slower and more deliberate as the first spurt of his semen thudded into her.

Paul instinctively placed his hands on her hips, dragging her down as she, suddenly losing her previous authoritative tone, started to whimper, “Deeper…deeper darling.”

Jean, feeling her own orgasm starting to take over, added her cries to his. Had Paul not been lost in the delectable haze of his own sexual frenzy he might have been puzzled by Jean’s outcry, since her words seemed to contradict her frenetic movements

“No…no…I can’t…it’s agony I don’t want aaaheow…oh…oh…oh…ha….oh…yes…oh my God…yes…”

For a few moments they writhed together, and then Paul ejected the last of his sperm into her.

Jean had not finished and she wept, “Stay with me…stay…I still want…oh…aah…ha…ha…oh…”

Since she was sitting over him Paul had little alternative but to stay with her as she went on moving over his slackening shaft for another minute as her orgasm ran down. When the last tremor had passed Jean relaxed over him, her breasts brushing his chest as she pressed moist kisses over his face.

“Did…you…like it…darling…do…you…feel…good?”

“Yes…it was…” Paul groped to find a word to describe the ecstasy he had experienced and finally came out with, “It was bloody wonderful.”

His penis was still inside her and their groins were sticky with the mixture of their fluids.

Jean pulled away from him and briefly flopped down beside him. “God that was so good, I had no idea you’d be so…so…you have been with a woman before, haven’t you?”

“Just sort of, with a girl at school.”

“It’s just that…well…it was so…so…fantastic. Thank God you’re staying the night; I want a lot more of you my love, lots more; and I did say we should get to know each other better and I’d make a man of you.”

Paul had no argument with this; he felt he could tolerate all the man-making Jean could dish out.

Whether Paul fully appreciated it or not, he was fortunate to have a mature woman to initiate him into his sex life, rather than an inexperienced school girl.

One outcome of these younger man-older woman encounters is that the young man often wants to continue the relationship indefinitely; thus the woman, who might just be meeting her own needs while her husband is absent, or simply felt it her responsibility to introduce the young man to the female body, finds herself embroiled in a situation more serious than she anticipated. If that problem was to arise in the case of Paul and Jean, it was for the time being in abeyance.

For the moment Paul thought the last remnants of the austere Aunty Jean had dissipated. Now she was a warm and beautifully vulnerable female. He lay there wondering if it was all a dream and he would soon wake up.

Just as the stern Jean floated away, she was suddenly back again.

“Right, shower.”

“I’ve had shower,” he protested.

“Then you’re going to have another one, with me. Look at us, I’ve got your sperm dribbling down my legs and your groin is covered with my lubricant; so a shower.”

Paul wasn’t sure whether to be defiant or complaint. Compliance won and he meekly followed the goddess who had introduced him to the wonders of the mature female.

Once in the shower, and instructed by Jean on how to wash out her vagina, she soothingly cleaned his penis. Another erection arose. He made a fumbling effort to copulate with her, but she repelled him saying, “Some other time, I’ve got other plans for you.”

He was a little disappointed that Jean did not use any fragrant unguents from the Mystic East, only plain soap.

Showering finished they retired to Jean’s bedroom.

“Now we’ll find out how much of a man you are,” Jean said seductively. “Just lie on your back.”

She sat astride him again but this time over his chest. He could feel the warm moistness of her sex organ pressed against him as she gradually worked her way up his body leaving a faint trail of female juice. She was poised over his face and he could see the long furrow of her labia. Her fingers took hold of her outer lips and she opened them to reveal two more small pink lips within, wet and inviting.

“Kiss and lick me there,” she ordered as she lowered herself to his mouth. “You can find out what a woman smells and tastes like.”

The soft organ engulfed his mouth as Jean ordered, “Push in…push in with your tongue, right inside me.”

He thrust with his tongue and it slipped into her vaginal tunnel. Her hands came round the back of his head, holding him to her. Her female fragrance filled his nostrils and her bitter sweet taste was on his tongue.

“Whatever you hear or feel, don’t stop,” she commanded.

He started to push his tongue in and out and above him he could hear her low cries, “Deeper…harder…ah….ah…ah…faster…oh my God.” He felt her move away from him slightly and then there was something, something a little higher up her slit, a soft little nub that he was licking and sucking.

I’m coming…stop…stop…I don’t want…it’s too pai…oh God, yes…don’t stop…don’t stop…aah…aaah…naeeeow…”

His face was soaked with her lubricant as she leapt and squirmed over him in ecstatic fury. She let out one long piercing scream and then began to slow down. Not until the last of her post-climax shudders had passed away did she release his head, and drop down beside him.

Still on his back, his penis stood up like a muezzin’s minaret, long, hard and topped with its light purple onion shaped head.

There was a pause, then Jean said, “You…now you…”

She moved down his body and took the head of his penis into her mouth. He felt her tongue licking along his length, her mouth sucking him as if she would draw the semen up from his testicles.

He felt as if he was hanging on the edge of an orgasmic precipice; then his testicles released their burden. Sperm pumped up his length and shot from his urethra. Jean tried to swallow the flood of his sticky seed, but it overwhelmed her and started to ooze out of the corners of her mouth in glutinous strands.

With each new ejection Paul cried out, “Aha…aha…aha…” and with the last drip he emitted a long sigh.

Jean sucked on him a little longer as if to ensure that he had finished, and then she lay beside him once more.

“She smiled stickily, and through the residue of his sperm she said, “You’ll do…nine out of ten…darling.”

She rose lethargically from the bed, then mumbling thickly, “Stay here, I won’t be long,” she left the room.

Paul lay there recovering from his orgasm and trying to come to terms with what had happened. He concluded that the oral sex was what Jean meant by her “special needs,” and if that was all, it suited him. “What happens now?” he wondered.

Jean returned, having apparently rinsed his sperm from her mouth. She lay beside him and pulling close drew his head to her breasts.

She sounded very warm and yielding as she said, “I like my nipples sucked.”

She put a hand under one of her breasts and brought its nipple to his mouth, and as he took it into his mouth she drew his hand to her other breast, pressing his fingers round it.

He suckled her and gently pinched her nipple with his fingers and she made little mewling sounds of pleasure.

Her hand reached down for his penis and grasping it she said, “My God, Paul, you are potent.”

She was right, already he had another erection; such is the vigour of youth.

He tried to push her onto her back so that he could come over her, but she resisted, instead turning her back on him pushing her buttocks back hard against him and taking his hand she drew it over her and laid it on a breast. Then she reached under her groin, and finding his penis she guided it into her.

When his full length was in her they lay still for a long time, then Paul began a slow rocking motion that gradually brought him to ejaculation. If Jean had an orgasm it must have been a very gentle one because all he could hear were gasps and sighs.

When he finished he started to pull out of her, but Jean said, “No, stay with me…it’s time for sleep, so we sleep like this.”

With his penis still in her vagina he drifted from the female wonderland she had introduced him to into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

When he woke in the morning she was gone from the bed. He wondered if he had dreamt it all, but if so, why was he in her bed – a bed redolent of their coupling in the smell that lingers after sexual intercourse and the stains of their fluids on the under sheet?

He rose and went in search of her; finding her in the kitchen. He went to her eagerly and attempted to kiss her, only to find that the austere Jean had returned.

“No,” she said sharply, “no more sex until…”

“But you said it as so good…”

“Yes, it was but I’ve seen something.”

“What?”

“You left the computer on last night.”

“Did I, sorry, but what has that got to do…”

“I saw what was on it; it’s atrocious. If you want to behave like a man with me, you can take the responsibilities of a man. No more sex until you’ve written that assignment, and written it properly.”

“But I…”

“No sex until the assignment is finished, I’ll help you, but you will write it. You can start after breakfast.”

Somehow that morning Paul seemed to be unusually motivated. Jean took books from the shelves and marked sections for him to read. He read at a speed that would have amazed his tutor. He typed on the computer in English that not even he knew he was capable of.

When all was done to Jean’s satisfaction she said, “If you want to be my lover, then in future you will produce good work. I don’t want a lazy, irresponsible lover. Now come to bed and get your reward.”

When Paul had received his reward Jean said, “You’ll have to go home now but…”

“I don’t want to go home,” Paul protested, “I want to stay with you.”

Perhaps the first indication of the clinging young lover?

“Don’t be foolish Paul, you know you can’t. If what we’ve been doing was found out by your parents there would probably be a hell of a row, and I don’t want that. If you want more of me then you must say nothing to anyone about us.”

“Then how can we be together?” Paul complained.

“Stop behaving like a spoilt child, Paul. If you’re going to be my lover then I’m going to make a man of you. I think I know how to arrange for us to be together.”

“How?”

“You’ll know if and when I’ve succeeded. Now come into me again and then you must go.”

No matter how he tried Jean would not reveal how she intended to bring them together, so Paul had to return home content with her promise that she would try.

It was three days later over the evening meal when Paul’s mother said, “I’ve had a telephone call from Jean about you, Paul.”

Paul felt his stomach lurch. His first thought was that Jean had suffered a fit of guilty conscience and revealed what they had done.

“Oh?”

“Yes, she says that it’s time your horizons were broadened.”

“Ah,” he thought, “Jean has broadened them already.”

“Well, you know she’s a very cultured woman, Paul, and I think that what she has suggested is very good. She’s even said she’ll bear the costs.”

“What are you talking about Martha?” his father asked, looking up from his plate.

“She says that she’d like to introduce Paul to some of the finer things of life.”

“She already has,” Paul thought, but said nothing.

“You mean those bloody concerts and things she goes to?” his father growled.

“Yes, and the art galleries and museums and…”

“Don’t see much use in all that myself,” his father said, “but if she’s willing to pay and Paul likes the idea, then okay.”

His mother looked at Paul questioningly and said, “I know you’ve never really been close to Jean; in fact I don’t think you like her very much but if…”

“Oh, she’s okay,” Paul interrupted, trying not to sound too eager, “I’ve sort of seen another side of her.”

His father gave a short cynical guffaw.

His mother ignored this and went on, “It might mean staying with her for weekends and other odd occasions but she says she’ll see you get on with your studies. So if you’d like to, then…”

“Yes, fine…fine…mum, tell her I’d like that.”

“God bless Jean,” he thought

His father looked up again and gave him a quizzical look, but said nothing.

Over the following weeks and months Paul’s parents and tutors were amazed at the improvement in his studies. His parents particularly found it strange that although on top of his weekends with Jean she often had him stay with her on weekdays when they went out to a concert or theatre; Paul’s work went on improving.

Paul seemed to be energised, changing from an indolent, careless boy of eighteen into a highly motivated young man.

“Jean must be doing something right with him,” his father commented to Martha one evening.

“Yes, she seems to have the magic touch; I wish I knew what it was. I mean, he never seemed to like her in the past, but now he can’t see enough of her.”

“Yes,” said his father speculatively, “so let’s just hope she keeps on doing it, whatever it is.”

Jean certainly did keep on doing it, and then one Saturday night just before they went to bed Jean said ambiguously, “You’ll do, Paul, you’re the one.”

“The one what?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing, I was just thinking out loud.”

It was from that night Paul found a slight change in Jean’s approach to their love making. She didn’t stop giving him oral sex or letting him press her breasts over his penis as he moved it between them, but she now insisted that he always ended up ejaculating into her vagina.

Also she seemed to be much softer and yielding as they came together.

This went on for a couple of months before Paul finally found out why the change.

It was not Jean who revealed it, but Paul’s mother. One night when he happened to be in for the evening meal, his mother excitedly burst out with her news.

“Jean’s pregnant.”

Paul felt the blood drain from his face.

“Oh,” responded his father “didn’t think she had a guy in tow.”

“No,” said his mother thoughtfully. “You see a lot of her these days Paul, have you seen signs of a man around her place?”

“Er…er…n-n-no mum.”

“You’d hardly think she’d have time for a guy considering the time she spends with Paul,” his father said with a hint of suspicion in his tone.

“Yes, that’s true,” his mother replied pensively. “Are you sure you haven’t seen signs of man in her place?”

“No mum.”

“Mind you,” his father went on in a meaningful tone, “wouldn’t blame someone for getting on to her. For all that she can be a cold fish she’s a bloody good looking woman.” He looked at Paul intently.

A long silence ensued while Paul’s father continued his stare. Finally a grin spread over his face as he asked, “Sure you don’t know anything about it?”

“N-no d-dad.”

His father gave him a salacious wink and then seemed to lose interest in the subject.

Paul felt as if some cold hand had gripped his guts. It was possible that Jean had some man in tow, as his parents put it, but all the time he’d…”Oh my God…what am I going to do?”

The delights that Jean had introduced him to seemed to pale into insignificance beside the realisation that he had probably fathered a child with her.

His first thought was to run away, but where could he run to since he had no money and didn’t fancy life on the streets? He briefly contemplated suicide, but dismissed the idea since he couldn’t make up his mind which of the unpleasant methods open to him he would use.

Next he decided he wouldn’t see Jean again, but that idea also faded away. Jean had given him pleasures that few young men his age enjoyed, so how could he just not see her; and besides, not seeing her wouldn’t make her unpregnant.

He felt himself embroiled in a waking nightmare. He was due to go out with Jean the next evening and he was supposed to be spending the night with her. He tried to think of ways of not seeing her that evening, just to delay the moment when they would have to talk about her condition. That was no good either because his mother knew he was going to Jean that evening, and he couldn’t think of a plausible excuse he could make to cancel the arrangement.

He slept badly, and next day at lectures he reverted to his previous inattention, and it had nothing to do with Judy.

The arrangement was that he went straight to Jean’s place after lectures. She would feed him and see that he did his work before they left for whatever it was they were going to – in his confused state he couldn’t remember what it was.

After university he dragged himself reluctantly to Jean’s place. She had given him a key some time ago so he let himself in. She wasn’t due home for another hour so Paul tried to settle to his studies, but to little avail.

He wandered out into the lounge and looked at the picture of nude Jean, meditating wretchedly on the evils of succumbing to things of the flesh since, delightful though they might be at the time, the consequences could be less than desirable.

He heard Jean enter.

“Hello darling.”

“Lo.”

Jean looked at him quizzically. “What the matter, you look terrible?”

“You know what the matter is.”

“Do I?”

“Mum told me.”

“Ah…so that’s it; she told you I’m pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“That’s nothing to be miserable about. I’m pregnant, not dying of cancer or something.”

“Well isn’t being pregnant bad enough?”

“Bad? Whatever makes you say that; I thought you’d be pleased fathering a child at your age.”

Paul was getting a bit fed up with Jean and his parents talking to him and about him as if he was still a kid, so he snapped, “So what am I supposed to do, I’ve got no money so…”

“Stop this Paul. I made a decision that I’d like to get pregnant with you; I knew when I decided you couldn’t support a child.”

“You mean it wasn’t an accident?”

“Of course it wasn’t, you silly boy. I just stopped taking the pill.

“But…but…why?”

“I told…I thought how lovely it would be getting pregnant with someone as young as you. I thought you’d be pleased, not many young men your age become fathers, especially with a mature woman. Mostly it is an accident with a girl their own age.”

“I could have fathered a kid six or seven years ago,” he said arrogantly, thinking of the time he first started to produce sperm

Jean looked at him with concern.

“You thought I would tell everyone that you’re the father, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And I’d start to make demands on you?”

“Well, yes, I mean…”

“Good heavens Paul, I know quite well you’re not ready to be a proper father. You’ve done what I wanted you to do and I’m not laying any responsibility on you. You poor silly boy you…”

“Will you stop calling me a boy, and who says I couldn’t be a proper father?”

“Look Paul, you may not be a boy, but I know that one day you’ll find some girl your own age and probably marry her. All I needed you to do was make me pregnant before I get past the age of being able to. I even thought you might like to make me pregnant again later on, unless of course you’d found someone else. Now, do you feel more cheerful?”

Certainly Paul felt relieved. He was not going to be held responsible for his pleasures.

Jean continued, “I’m sorry darling, I really meant to break it to you gently, but I was so pleased when I learned I was pregnant I was bursting to tell someone, and that someone was your mother.”

Jean laughed quietly and said, “Darling, I think we’re having our first quarrel, shall I cancel the tickets and we can go to bed and make it up.”

The next instant her tone became less soft. “Have you done your work?”

“Er…no…I couldn’t…I was so…”

“Then you can do it now and then its bedtime and some tender loving care.”

Feeling as if a mighty weight had been lifted from him, and with the promise of Jean’s body dangling before him, Paul got through his work at record speed. It even passed Jean’s careful inspection.

It is now some years since Jean first introduced Paul to the wonders of the female body. She gave birth to a daughter, and fourteen months later to a son.

Paul’s parents have often puzzled about why Paul hasn’t found and married some “nice girl.” When at twenty two Paul announced that it was time for him to leave home, they were even more puzzled why he elected to take a room with Jean, “And with those kids around,” his father commented.

Paul’s father conjectured that Paul was gay, and that Jean didn’t mind if he had gay lovers stay with him overnight. If his parents ever thought of another possibility they never talked about, but they did wonder why Jean’s son a daughter bore such a distinct resemblance to Paul. But then, we often don’t see what we don’t want to see, or understand what we don’t want to understand.

As for Jean; she is almost as puzzled as Paul’s parents. She wonders why Paul still seems to be satisfied with her, and on the occasions when she has said, “Darling, I’m too old for you; you should be looking for someone younger.”

Paul stops her with a kiss and says, “Tired of me, are you?”

“No of course not darling, but…”

“Would I find someone better than you?

This is usually followed by a pause, and Paul says:

“Ah, no answer, so let’s not talk anymore, I want some strawberry nipple;” and he doesn’t mean ice cream.

It’s strange, but Paul doesn’t seem to be overawed by Jean now.

Incidentally, Paul never did get paid for the house sitting.