I had been chatting with a woman named Karen on an “adult” dating site for a few days. Total number of messages: about five each. Progress: coming along, I suppose you’d say. On such sites, I tend to take it fairly slowly, even if everyone knows what you’re there for. You don’t want to frighten anyone off, because if she’s just a bit slower than you, and it’s taken all her courage to actually put a profile on there, she might come round in a while.
My profile stated quite clearly that I was looking for someone who liked to be rimmed, because that is my thing. The words I used were “must like having her bottom licked”, and Karen’s first message confirmed that she did. She seemed like a nice enough person, bright and breezy and able to string a few words together, which is not actually essential in a sexual context, but it can make the first date more comfortable.
She worked in a bank, she said, and was divorced with two grownup children. I assumed that was true but I wasn’t bothered if it really was, because as long as I could have a few hours of her time, that was all that mattered.
She wouldn’t send me a picture of her face or her pussy, but she did give me a nice shot of her breasts, of which she was clearly quite proud. I’m not really a tit man, but a sizeable pair does tend to indicate a full-figured woman, and that blue I do like. So what I gathered about Karen was that she was a substantial woman with pale skin. Maybe blonde, maybe brunette. Again, that didn’t matter.
We lived about fifty miles apart, so we arranged to meet in a hotel bar about halfway. I booked a room, but if one of us didn’t want to stay the night it wouldn’t be a desperately long drive home. She would know me by my olive corduroy jacket and blue Oxford shirt, and she would be wearing a pink top and black skirt.
The next day, when I took the jacket out of the wardrobe I remembered it had a big tear in it where I had caught a pocket on a bench in the garage. I took another one, a dark blue thing I didn’t like so much, but what the hell, it was only a jacket.
I got to the hotel on the dot of eight o’clock, ordered a beer and sat in the window, overlooking the car park. The place was busy, the customers mainly passing through; not locals, I decided. A car pulled in a few minutes later and a woman got out, wearing a long Burberry coat against the autumnal chill. It was Mrs Robertson, the head teacher at my son’s old school, and suddenly I felt guilty, a child caught in the act of something.
Mrs Robertson strode confidently into the bar and looked around. She did a doubletake when she saw me and seemed unsure what to do. I waved like the mature man I was still pretending to be in spite of all the evidence to the contrary. Maybe everyone thinks like that. She looked at the bar, scanned the room again and walked over to me.
“Mr Clark,” she said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
She explained that she was meeting a friend and that he was notoriously unpunctual, which infuriated her. I agreed. I offered her a drink and said she could sit with me while she waited. She looked dubious, but then worked it out in her head and sat down gratefully.
It wasn’t much warmer indoors than out, so she kept her coat on and buttoned up, although she did remove her scarf. When I returned with her dry white wine, she crossed her legs and I remembered that I used to quite fancy her. Quite a lot, in fact, much to my ex-wife’s disgust. But there was plenty about me that disgusted my ex-wife.
Mrs Robertson and I chatted in no-man’s-land areas, or so it seemed to me. I was in no hurry to confess my evening’s mission. I told her I was waiting for several friends but I was early as usual, and as they would be all traveling in one car, if one was late they all were. I was trying not to look shifty. When Karen did turn up – if she did – I would just make my excuses to the teacher and take my date to the other end of the room.
Five minutes went by. Ten. Twenty. My gaze flicked from the car park to the door and to my companion. Cars came and went. Customers arrived and the place filled up.
After half an hour I had an idea.
“Well, this is silly,” I said. “I’d better phone them.”
I didn’t have Karen’s phone number – she was obsessively discreet – but I had to go through the motions. I called my own landline and let it ring for a long time.
“Not answering,” I said.
“My friend is the only person on the planet who doesn’t actually have a phone,” she said ruefully.
“I’ll give them another ten minutes,” I said. “Then it’s plan B.”
“What’s plan B?” she asked.
“Then I ask my son’s old head teacher if she would like to join me for dinner.” She didn’t respond. “If she is still waiting for her own acquaintance to arrive. Then if they all turn up, we’ll have a party.” I laughed nervously at my own little joke.
“Mmm,” she said, her eyes flicking here and there. “Okay, why not? I haven’t been stood up since I was seventeen, and I don’t intend to start now.”
The decision made, she unbuttoned her coat, stood up and slipped it off. Pink top and black skirt. What a coincidence. She saw me watching and thinking, then stared at my shirt.
“You know what would go well with that shirt?” she said. “An olive green corduroy jacket.”
I felt myself blush, and then I felt excitement begin to grow. If this was Karen – and I was frantically trying to remember Mrs Robertson from school’s first name – then I had already told her I wanted to lick her arse. And she had already implied that she would let me.
“I have got one, actually,” I said. “Was going to wear it tonight but it’s… it needs repairing.”
“Oh my God,” Mrs Robertson said, her head scrambled with the same thoughts as I was having. This guy wants to have sex with me and I’ve given him the impression that’s going to happen. And not just sex, but real dirty stuff. George Clark’s father.
“I’m Andy,” I said, offering my hand as if we had just met.
“Karen,” she replied, shaking my hand briefly. We both sat in silence for a few seconds, then both began speaking nervously.
“So… well… well I…” and then we looked at each other and smiled helplessly.
“Weird,” she said.
“You don’t have to stay now that you know,” I said gallantly. “I understand completely.”
“No,” she said. “Why should it make a difference? We know each other’s terrible secret and we’re as guilty as each other.”
“Dinner?” I said.
“Another drink,” she said. “I’ll get them.”
By the time Karen got back with the drinks, we had both calmed down a little. She really was a mature person, even if I wasn’t. She was the head of a junior school, for heaven’s sake. She was a genuine adult. And I could see her looking at me as she crossed the floor, but it wasn’t a judging look. She had made a decision. She looked almost relieved.
We talked again, still on safe ground and not mentioning the site, but more relaxed because we could drop the pretence. I was trying to reboot, to get back to what would have happened if we hadn’t known each other. The arrangement had been that we would have dinner together before or after. But that was when we were carefree, anonymous people communicating remotely.
“Shall we have dinner?” I asked.
“They serve until 10,” she replied.
# # #
“Christ,” Karen said as I closed the door of the hotel room. “This is scary, isn’t it?”
“Kind of,” I said. “But I’ve always liked you.”
“And I’ve always liked you,” she replied. “Sexy Mr Clark and his irritable wife. Come here.”
“It’s like doing an exam and already knowing what the questions will be,” I said, unable to avoid the school train of thought.
“And the answers,” she said, looking into my eyes.
We held each other close and kissed, and it was incredible. I had thought about this woman for years. I had masturbated thinking about her. In a completely different context, I had seen her breasts. We had discussed what we were going to do together, at least certain things. Did that mean I could just steam ahead now? I decided to treat it as a normal sex date. I put my hand under her top and unhooked her bra. She helped me and stood there naked from the waist up.
I kissed her breasts and sucked her nipples. She stroked the back of my neck and then her hand was on my flies and she was unzipping my trousers and her hand was in there and in my underpants and… Mrs Robertson was holding my cock and that cock was standing up, telling her it was ready to fuck her.
We dispensed with the rest of our clothes and lay on the bed. My tongue roamed her body. She was beautiful. But more than that, she was wonderful. I kissed her smooth mound and she parted her legs, inviting me to lick her. Her pussy was as beautiful as the rest of her, and she tasted divine. I sucked her labia and her clitoris and then I kissed her crotch and licked her thighs.
“And when are you going to get to the best part?” she asked mischievously.
“Which part is that?” I teased back.
“The part, Mr Clark, where you lick my arse,” she said, triumphing over her reservations and perhaps her upbringing.
“Turn over,” I said firmly.
“On my knees?” she asked.
“On your knees,” I said. “I am going to lick your arse.”
And I did. Her backside was as demure, as classy as everything else about her. It was elegant, even. She had lovely, smooth buttocks and the halo around her little bumhole was smooth and had a sort of tanned look.
“Oh my god, Mr Clark,” she gasped. “I can’t believe someone is finally doing that to me. It’s fantastic. I’m partly ashamed of myself and partly thrilled. It’s so beautiful.”
“I want to make you cum,” I said. “Do you think…”
“Oh yes,” she said, then hesitated. “Can you see what I had for lunch? Do you want to climb in there and get it? Do you, Andy? Do you love my bum as much as your tongue seems to? Oh damn, oh shit… sorry. Oh fuck. Oh my God!” She squealed as she orgasmed. Her legs twitched at the ankles and her lips trembled as she strove to get her wits about her again.
I held her in my arms and we lay in a post-rimming daze.
“Better go down for dinner,” I said at length.
“Don’t you want to… continue… finish?” she asked hesitantly.
“No,” I said. “We can come back later and do everything else, and I do mean everything. But I want to go and sit opposite you at a dinner table with the thought that my face has just been between your buttocks. And you will know you’ve just had your arse licked on our first date. And the waitress is going to wonder what we’re glowing about. or if it’s a man he’s going to wonder how a guy like me could be as lucky as to be gazing into the eyes of such a beautiful woman as you.”
