420 to Wittlesham

I fucked an eighteen year old at the weekend. I'm not going to offer up some asinine trope like he happened to be more mature than most boys his age, or pretend that it was anything other than a disgracefully self serving vanity shag. He came on to me, I was flattered, and we ended up in bed. His. At his parent's house, of all places.

Excuses? Do I need them? Men never have done. I fucked Henry because I could, and because he's a cocky little shit who, if he continues along the path he seems so capable of treading, will one day become someone's dream Dominant. He's got the gene, the it factor, the sort of cocksure swagger that dances so sweetly on the line between gallingly desirous and distastefully arrogant.

He's also my best friend's son. I've known him for years. So, yeah, grab the rotten fruit, stick me in the pillory and go forth with your entirely justifiable judgement.

Even my husband winced when I returned home in the early hours, soiled and sated, from a night spent rutting on the creaking single futon of an ecstatic teenager with mother issues.

'Emily is going to do her fucking nut.' He offered, less than helpfully, after confirming that he neither needed nor wanted me to shower before joining him in our marital bed.

'She might not find out.' I argued, rather pitifully, dropping my dress to my ankles and slipping my stockings off as my husband's eyes roved covetously over my suddenly bared curves, 'I mean, why would Henry say anything?'

'You're kidding, right? He'll already have WhatsApped half the upper sixth with riotous tales of his milf slaying shenanigans.' My beloved replied, chuckling, 'Accompanied, no doubt by a picture of your tits that you will have invariably allowed him to take in the heat of the moment.'

I offered no denials. How could I, when I'd been sprawled across Henry's Batman duvet, stocking clad legs spread, a tit cupped provocatively in one hand, the other parting the puckered petals of my cunny as the eldest son of my closest friend got all happy-snappy with his phone.

'...Just none with my face in, okay sweetheart?...'

Click, click...Like he was interested in my fucking face.

Then there was the conundrum of when to admit we'd made a video, too. I'd cum so fucking hard knowing Henry was filming the two of us screwing like Braddock and Mrs Robinson as he asphyxiated me with his school tie.

In truth I knew my husband would eat it up - just as he would my cunt - all as I reminded him how his tennis buddy's son had just spurted his youthful seed inside the very hole he was about to gratefully plunder with his tongue. A good slut wife is best eaten when used, my beau has always said. Words to live by.

I adore that about him - how he loves to go down on me when I'm fresh out of the arms of another, of how he wants to hear every little detail, no matter how nauseatingly humiliating it might be for him. I don't have to fret about holding something back, there's no requirement that I massage his ego. He wants it all, and he wants it unfiltered.

It's always been so, and I've long cherished, and perhaps even admired his extraordinary tolerance of my extra curricular 'frolics', as he likes to refer to the occasional dalliances I've enjoyed since the days of our courting and beyond.

He's a good man, and fucks me exquisitely. Mine isn't a hunger borne from inadequacy. It's just that I'm a woman who views sexual freedom as an intrinsic part of feminism within a marriage. Turns out that's exactly the kind of female empowerment my husband can get behind.

Who knew?

He didn't even wait for me to climb into bed, choosing instead to take to his knees as I leant back against my dressing table with a widened, expectant gait.

'Such a strong, muscular, capable man - yet you so willingly subjugate yourself at my feet.' I whispered teasingly, running my hands through his mop of foppish dark curls as he kissed my clit and began deftly working me back to arousal with marvellous swirls of his tongue, 'Can you smell him on me, the boy I just cucked you with?'

I shared everything - of how I'd been driving back from the annual gathering of 'Women in business' at the Radisson, rain teeming from the darkened night sky, street lights a wonderful hazy blur through the incessant deluge, only for a young man to appear on the side of the road, dinner jacket clutched languidly under one arm, the other outstretched with thumb raised.

The shadowy figure was tipsy, oscillating to and fro as he walked, so I slowed down in case he stepped into the road. When I pulled alongside him I realised it was Henry.

He was soaked to the skin, his white dress shirt clinging proudly to the rippled protrusions of his washboard stomach, dark sodden locks swaying in front of his sculpted cheek bones like a boyband wannabe.

He looked gorgeous - and as yet, blissfully untainted by the cruel blows life has a habit of dishing out. It was starkly beautiful to witness, sculpted into those handsome features - a young man who retained a belief in whatever it was he thought was his destiny. Hope still ruled his world and danced with certainty in each sparkle of his eyes. Maybe I wanted a piece of that before life got at him and stamped it into the dust.

I hadn't seen him in months, which was normal during term time, being that he's a boarder at public school. Yet in a bizarre quirk of fate, there he was, staggering down the road in a blizzard of lashing rain and gale force wind. It only took one glance to realise that the boy his mother and I used to joke would one day grow up to be a heartbreaker had suddenly become a stone cold stud.

I pulled over in a lay-by about ten yards ahead. He recognised my car and began lolloping through the blustery storm towards me.

'You're a lifesaver Mrs H!...' He crooned in his beautifully plum throated drawl, and half of storm whatever-its-name-was gusted inside my previously pristine vehicle in a torrent of bluster and mayhem.

I'd had a speech prepared, something about how hitchhiking was dangerous and that nobody did shit like that anymore - but I took one look into his blue eyes and whatever the fuck I had to say went whistling on the wind.

'What a dress! You look fucking awesome!'

I blushed, waved Henry's compliment away, inwardly squirmed at his deliciously objectifying perusal of my figure, and felt quietly elated that my husband had insisted I head out in the Mônot halter neck he'd bought me as a birthday prezzie.

I pulled back onto the road with Henry pairing his phone to my car stereo (you don't mind do you, Mrs H?) - whilst ignoring a series of furious honks as I accelerated down the inside lane and undertook a man with small car syndrome.

Henry called him a prick and stole another lingering glance at the décolletage of my dinner gown before casually sparking up a joint. He even pulled it from an ornate antique silver cigarette holder, and I half expected him to have picked the Bond theme as our background accompaniment.

I briefly considered chastising him, y'know, doing the whole, what the fuck, drugs, in my car? Are you freaking kidding me? But that seemed dead to a past where once it had been a boy clambering into my passenger seat from the rugger field in mud caked shorts and horrendously dirty boots, rather than a dashing young man stupidly hitching a ride home from a toffs ball in designer black tie.

'You look very suave - for a drowned rat.' I teased, gesturing to his tux as his zippo clunked closed and a waft of acrid marijuana smoke billowed around the car.

'This? It's one of dad's castoffs.' Henry explained matter of factly, idly tossing the jacket onto my back seat. I laughed and reminded him that most people weren't so privileged as to receive hand-me-down's that came straight from Cad And The Dandy.

Henry shrugged and suggested the privilege, actually, would have been to have had my 'fine ass' on his arm whilst wearing it. I squirmed, he brushed a lock of hair from my cheek and then leant across and gently placed the joint between my pursed lips. It was a simple act, yet consummately authoritative, disgracefully presumptive and deliciously self assured.

'What about Ophelia?' I asked, exhaling a plume of smoke and suddenly feeling rather rebellious as I weaved through the meandering traffic, 'She'd go batshit crazy if you rocked up with me on your arm.'

'Fee and I split. She's fun n'all...' Henry mused, 'But I prefer older women these days.'

I sniggered, nearly choking on fumes and the young man's bravado - but I had to ask, I couldn't scratch the itch, 'So what do you prefer about older women?'

'They know what they want...and I like to give them what they need...'

Fuck.

We stopped for fuel at the garage off Telstow. Henry asked me to 'front him' some skins and baccy, 'I'll be good for it in a few days' he pleaded with a magnetising grin, 'I kinda blew all my coin at the ball, it's why I was hitching - but I'd like to kick back tonight, what with my folks being out of town.'

Buying tobacco and rolling paraphernalia so my best friend's son could get baked felt compellingly inappropriate. I'd completely forgotten that Emily and Alastair were away at their fancy tantric yoga retreat. That fucking place cost more than a five star fortnight in the Maldives, just for a long weekend stay. Apparently they were trying to reconnect with their inner sexual selves after the kids, so Emily claimed. It felt kind of ironic that her horny-as-fuck first born was trying to pull me in her absence, the cheeky little shit.

Yet there I was, heels clicking across an otherwise barren garage forecourt whilst pretending I wasn't doing my utmost to look seductive for the youngster ogling every step I made from the passenger seat of my car.

'Does anyone ever talk to your face?' He jested, beaming at me as I pulled the door open, 'Seriously, the way your boobs bounce when you walk is a fucking dream. What size are they?'

'Rarely, and never you fucking mind.' I replied, tossing a packet of baccy and some skins into his lap.

He thanked me with his usual plum throated, effusive charm, and then reached across and squeezed the top of my thigh for good measure. I let it go. Perhaps I shouldn't have, but he was like an intoxicating whirlwind, having switched from discussing the size of my breasts to eulogising over his newly acquired knowledge that I wore seamed stockings.

'It's fucking sexy, and glamorous, it's powerful is what it is, you've got such a stylish retro chic thing going on.' He eulogised, and I couldn't help but inwardly revel in how good the barrage of plaudits felt.

It wasn't until I went to change gear that I realised the split of my gown had ridden up when I'd climbed back into the car - leaving the noir welt of my stocking acutely visible to Henry's delighted gaze.

'Tell me you're not wearing any knickers and I'll agree to take law at Cambridge, like, right now.' He crooned, 'Seriously, my future is in your hands.'

'Why on earth would you surmise that I mightn't be wearing any knickers?' I chuckled, marvelling at his seemingly boundless confidence.

'Well you're not wearing a bra, are you.' Came the deadpan riposte, and we both broke into one of those stoner giggles that runs and runs.

At some point we finally managed to pull onto the country road towards Wittlesham. I tried to steer the conversation towards Cambridge and the importance of taking up the offer he'd received to study law, with little success.

'I kinda feel more inclined towards the arts. But that's a debate for another day, and I don't want to get all bitter and sad tonight, not when we're having so much fun.' He replied, with a genuine tinge of melancholy briefly seeping into his tone, 'So, about those knickers...'

I could've moved his hand away when he reached across and began to run his palm up my thigh, but I didn't - and that was all the encouragement Henry needed.

Maybe it was the buffeting gale and the venomous rat-a-tat of rain lashing the windscreen as we meandered along the narrow, darkened country roads, but it felt rather as if we were in our own little bubble, unseen and untouched by the world outside, as if it was safe to do what we might otherwise never have countenanced.

Perhaps that's why I let him rub at the front of my gusset, and why I tried to subtly widen my legs, just a touch - because none of it felt real, and if I'm being honest, I kind of felt like he'd earned time with my pussy.

We were a couple of miles further down the road when he upped the ante and coerced me into raising my hind off the seat so he could pull my knickers off.

'I want to see your bushy cunt.' Henry explained, with a simmering of dominant expectation creeping into his tone. I got off on that.

'How do you know I'm bushy?' I queried, trying to sound demure.

'With those hairy pits? Seriously' the young man grinned, using his right hand to forcibly encourage my buttocks up off the driver's seat. It was all I could do to steer us around the next corner as the car manically kangaroo hopped along the isolated road. Henry was oblivious, focusing entirely on tugging my smalls down my thighs as we swerved to and fro.

He'd heard of La Perla, so he said, very classy, and insisted my back lacy knickers were to remain around my knees, just so. I was also to drive the remainder of the way with my dress hitched up around my waist 'So you're stockings and pussy are available and on show for my pleasure.'

The bollocks on him, eh?

It felt wonderful, truth be told, to allow myself the submission. A coming of age for him, perhaps, and an acceptance of inevitability for me, where our roles in regard to one another had subtly and inexorably shifted forever. As it was meant to be.

He adored my bush, 'It's so fucking thick!' he enthused, prising my labia open in his fingers and inspecting me in a manner that was marvellously, gratuitously objectifying - had I always been hairy? 'And those piercings, just wow, so kinky, definitely worth a closer look...'

I shifted myself down the seat a little, to help him explore and probe my blooming flower as the occasional street light flashed our truth to a village where I'd once run the tombola stall at the local fête.

Henry leant in and kissed me, so softly that when his lips met my cheek it could have been the touch of a feather. It was such a delicious contrast to the rugged manner in which he'd begun working my cunt, at first with two fingers, before swiftly forcing a third and then a fourth finger inside me. It needed to be four, he explained, so he could watch my fuck hole stretch and struggle under the duress.

'And you'll take it, for me, won't you Mrs H - you're that type of woman, I can tell.'

I nodded, bit my lip and revelled in his expectation. And for a while he worked my exposed cunt in a wonderful, piston like rhythm, sporadically pulling free to frantically rub my clit, only to once again push his four fingers robustly up inside me - all whilst whispering a litany of wonderfully sordid thoughts, prognostications and observations into my ear.

Onward we went, passed the tatty old bookies beside the Queen's Head, as the wind howled its own accompaniment to my increasingly unmuzzled groans and the rain pounded the windscreen almost as hard as Henry's four fingers were working my overburdened quim.

'I'm going to fucking cum!' I moaned, pouting my truth at the cctv camera looking down on me as we pulled to a standstill at a set of traffic lights blushing rouge.

fuuuuuuuuuuck!

I gushed a tsunami. Henry had definitely never seen anything like that before, at least not in the flesh. Perhaps I'd spoiled him - not all girls can, don't you know. Henry called it a gift, and waxed lyrical over how my bush glistened like a meadow at sunrise upon a dewey morning.

Maybe the arts was his calling after all.

My driver's seat was soaked, which felt utterly invigorating. Henry was muttering something about how I'd nearly broken his fingers and began wiping his glistening digits across my face in broad, disdainful strokes before forcing them into my mouth.

He was the sort that liked a girl to struggle. I could tell by the manner he pushed deeper down my throat, as if the pleasure only came from watching me choke. It almost distracted me from how he'd begun roughly pulling at the open fronted décolletage of my gown with his free hand, only satisfied when he'd gotten my tits out and could fondle me bare and exposed.

'I insist that you drive me home with those fucking beautiful melons on show - because they deserve to be displayed!' He guffawed expectantly, unwittingly cupping my exposed breasts to whomever might have been manning the Orwellian cctv leering in at us.

For a couple of minutes I sat there, watching the traffic light flick from red to amber to green, and back again, with Emily's son eagerly taking his time on my tits.

We even played guess the cup size, a game in which, somewhat perversely, for every wrong answer he made, we both discovered (again) quite how much he enjoyed slapping my exposed breasts. Watching the joy in his blue sparklers as I winced and bore the searing sting of each open palmed blow was all kinds of beautiful.

I was his best girl now, so he said, ...'because Mr H wouldn't mind, would he - I heard Mum telling uncle Rory that you guys are swingers...'

Did she indeed. Not helpful. Uncle Rory makes my flesh crawl.

Unlike Henry. Who had me wetter than the monsoon torrent streaming from the skies outside. He was beautifully poetic, rhapsodising over how he adored the vast expanse of my areola - '...like cherry ink seeping profoundly across pristine blotting paper...and those nipples are like engorged corks...'

Perhaps that's why he spent such an inordinate amount of time trying to pull them off.

We frenchie'd. I haven't called it that since school. It was one of those all kinds of slobbery, passionate, this is so wrong so it's somehow even more intense type of kisses - like having one's nips plugged into an electric socket.

I couldn't help myself and reached across to rub his cock through his trousers. He was stiff as a board and hung like every man of my dreams ought to be - so I did what was right, unzipped his fly, slipped off my seatbelt and sunk my mouth on to his precociously beautiful fat dick.

He came in about five seconds flat, and shot what felt like half a pint of premium semen down my throat - before pulling me up by my hair, just so he could shotgun three more loads across my face, and two more over my bared tits.

'A proper fucking spectacle, is what you are now, Mrs H.' He beamed, as I sat up with a myriad of sticky strands of cum streaked across my face and numerous others swinging from my scolded boobs.

'Thank you.' I mumbled, peering into the rear mirror to briefly admire the load he'd cascaded across my face, before peering down at my bared breasts and how Henry had gotten me sat with my cunt so prominently exposed and my knickers riding around my knees.

There's an art to depravity and I felt genuinely grateful for how the young man had degraded me quite so beautifully.

I half expected the local plod to pull up behind us, blue light whirring atop a hatchback I could have left for dead without bothering to get out of second gear.

'Ello, ello, what's this then?'

I imagined winding the window down just to give the rozzers a gawp at what it was to meld the hopes of precocious youthful dominance with the wants of menopausal middle aged hyper-sexuality.

'What seems to be the problem, officer?'

A car chase might just have been the perfect denouement.

I mean, just think of the mug shots. The Daily Mail would have lost its shit - 'Busty business woman caught in sordid sex game romp with best friend's public school boy son, all whilst driving to the family's £1.5 million, six bedroom country mansion...'