Nick arrived at the house exhausted from travel. He had always lived in a small rural town, and this was the first time that he had been in such a big city. But now, aged eighteen, he had his first proper job, and it meant moving far away from home to work in London, which was particularly daunting as Nick was a shy boy, uneasy in new situations.
He was still amazed that he had found a room at such a reasonable price. The house was actually in Weybridge, on the outskirts of London, but had good rail access into the centre, where the accountancy firm he had just started working for was based. He could see that the house was well-maintained with roses growing in the front garden, set in a tree-lined avenue.
He had conversed with Mary, the owner, over the phone after he saw the advert for the room. She had actually emailed him a questionnaire, requiring all sorts of information, and wanting to know about his age, his height, weight, whether he was single, whether he drank alcohol or took drugs, whether he listened to loud music, what sort of job he had, whether he had any hobbies or interests, it went on.
She also wanted several photos of him, almost like a police mug shot, taken from the front, back, and sides. When he had questioned this, she had explained that she was quite particular about who she let into her home and said, “The rent’s cheap because I like having someone around the house who I can engage with.”
As he walked up the driveway, the door opened, and he was greeted with a warm smile by Mary.
“You must be Nick,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. Her silk blouse gaped just enough when she folded her arms as she looked at him. “Mary Clarke. Welcome to your new home. Such as it is, you seem like a quiet one. That’s good, I hope you keep it that way. I have to be very selective as I detest loud tenants.”
Nick shyly gazed up at Mary, noticing her attractive appearance. He guessed she was probably in her mid-fifties, a good few inches taller than him, taller as she was wearing high heels, with neat, greying hair, and appeared to have a curvy figure, not fat but very nicely proportioned beneath her silk blouse and pencil skirt. She was extremely well spoken and seemed very sophisticated. City folk, he thought to himself.
Nick followed Mary into her house, the suitcase wheels squeaking as he dragged them over the threshold, the weight of his entire life packed into a cheap black case. He’d rolled it through three train transfers, and now one of the handles was sticky with sweat. “Thanks for having me, Ms Clarke,” he mumbled, pretending to adjust his grip so he didn’t have to meet her eyes.
Mary looked back down at him. “You may call me Mary, young man. Ms Clarke makes me feel ancient, and that simply won’t do.”
As she spoke, she plucked a loose thread from his shoulder, her fingers brushing the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
“Let me show you your room before you keel over, young man. You look like you’ve been dragging that thing around the world.”
The stairs groaned under their combined weight as Nick followed her up, his eyes fixed on the sway of her hips and the neat line running down the back of the black sheer stockings she was wearing. The suitcase banged against each step, its contents shifting with dull thuds.
At the end of a narrow hallway, Mary pushed open a white-painted door. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, shining over a quilt-covered twin bed. “Voilà,” she said, stepping aside to let him pass. The scent of fresh lavender enveloped him as he crossed the threshold, his shoes sinking into the thick carpet. Glancing through the window, he could see a tidy garden hemmed in by a crumbling brick wall, utterly private.
Nick barely had time to drop his suitcase before Mary was already halfway down the stairs, her voice floating up over the creaking steps.
“Dinner will be at 7 pm precisely, so don’t be late. I’m cooking roast chicken and have baked a homemade apple pie for dessert. You like cream with that?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but she continued without waiting, “Of course you do, a healthy boy like you must like his cream.” Her chuckle faded as she disappeared into the kitchen, the refrigerator door thumping shut below, followed by the rhythmic chop of a knife against wood.
By the time he’d unpacked his few belongings, the scent of roast chicken had seeped into every corner of the house. Nick found Mary in the kitchen, stirring a pan of gravy with one hand while pouring herself a generous glass of red with the other. She glanced over her shoulder, her lips already stained burgundy.
“Don’t just hover in the doorway like that,” she said, nudging a second glass toward him with her elbow.
The chicken skin crackled between his teeth, bursting with rosemary and sea salt, but Nick barely tasted it, as his attention kept being drawn to the way Mary’s blouse slipped off one shoulder when she laughed, revealing a delicate black bra strap.
“Drink up,” she murmured, topping up his glass until the ruby liquid threatened to spill over. “I do detest people who don’t enjoy fine wine.”
The wine was strong, a Malbec he had noticed earlier, and it had softened the edges of the evening, when later they were sitting together in the lounge on a soft velvet sofa. Mary curled her bare feet beneath her, the hem of her skirt riding up just enough to show the dimple above her knee as she again questioned him about his habits, his likes and dislikes.
She seemed very interested in whether he had had many girlfriends, saying, “The young of today are very promiscuous, are they not?” which had caused him to blush as he answered that he had not had a girlfriend.
Mary had poured a third glass of wine for them as they relaxed after the meal. Nick was not used to drinking and was feeling a little tipsy, so he excused himself when the grandfather clock hit eleven, claiming exhaustion.
In his room, he lay stiffly beneath the quilt, listening to the clink of dishes downstairs, the gurgle of drain water, the final click of the kitchen light.
Despite his shy personality, Nick, like most boys of his age, was certainly interested in the fairer sex and often spent hours on his laptop looking at porn. Though was still a virgin and had yet to experience the real thing. That was because his search history focused on women of a more mature age rather than girls of his own age.
That night, his dreams came soaked in burgundy and lavender. Mary’s hands, her strong fingers, pressing his shoulders into the mattress while her hair hung down, smelling of rosemary. When he woke gasping at 3 a.m., the sheets were damp and twisted around his thighs, and the dream’s heat still pulsed behind his ribs.
The days soon settled into a rhythm: the scrape of his dress shoes (polished weekly, a habit from his father) against the worn kitchen tiles each morning as Mary slid a plate of eggs across the counter without looking up from her crossword.
The train ride to the city centre, where he learned to balance a paper cup of coffee between his knees while flipping through training manuals. His manager’s voice, nasal and perpetual, droning about “facts and figures” while Nick’s mind wandered back to the way Mary had leaned over him yesterday evening to pluck an olive from his salad, her breast brushing his shoulder blade.
As the week wore on, Nick became more relaxed in his surroundings. He would often go out for a walk after dinner, exploring the neighbourhood while Mary cleared the table and washed up. Whilst doing so, he stumbled across an area of woodland at the edge of town which reminded him much of the woods around his hometown. As he walked, he came across a big old oak tree with distinctive marks where he assumed it had been struck by lightning years ago.
The following evening, while sorting out his shirt and tie for the morning, he spotted a large cardboard box at the back of the top shelf in the wardrobe. His enquiring mind got the better of him, so he lifted it down. Inside were several photo albums. He realised it was being nosy, but he couldn’t help himself from looking through them.
The photos showed Mary as a much younger woman in her twenties and thirties. There were photos of her in a wedding dress on her wedding day, smiling next to a tall, handsome man who must have been her husband.
As he flicked through the albums, he came across a series of holiday photos. Photos of Mary in shorts and a strappy top, Mary dancing in a cocktail dress on a cruise liner, then his eyes were drawn to a series of photos of Mary on the beach wearing a small bikini. Splashing in the sea and sunbathing. Her slim waist showed off her tan, and the bikini top barely covered her firm, ample breasts.
As he looked through the albums, he found more holiday photos of Mary relaxing on sun-loungers by the pool or on the beach wearing an assortment of skimpy bikinis, her long legs stretched out, glistening with tanning oil. In some, she was alone, in others she was with friends, laughing, flirting even, her hands draped casually over bronzed shoulders.
Then he turned a page and froze. There, tucked between shots of sunset cocktails, was a photo of Mary lying completely nude on a deserted stretch of beach, her body arched slightly as she propped herself up on one elbow, staring directly at the camera with a lazy, knowing smile.
Nick’s throat went dry. He shouldn’t be looking at this, shouldn’t even have the box open, but his fingers kept flipping pages. Another album revealed polaroids from what looked like a private party, taken at a large country house: Mary draped across a sofa in nothing but a silk robe, the fabric barely clinging to her curves, while other people, men and women, lounged around her in various states of undress, glasses of wine in hand. Their expressions were relaxed, amused, as if this was completely ordinary. His pulse hammered in his ears.
Then, under the last album, he found several porn magazines dating back to the late 90s. Nick had discovered a collection of similar magazines in the garage, which he figured belonged to his stepdad, with titles like Mayfair and Penthouse. But these were different, called Readers’ Wives.
Nick flipped through the glossy pages, half-expecting the same staged glamour shoots, but froze when he landed on a spread titled “Sophisticated Surrey.” There she was, Mary, unmistakably younger but with the same sly smile, lounging on a picnic blanket in a sun-dappled garden, completely nude except for a wide-brimmed straw hat tilted over one eye.
The caption below read: “Sophisticated Mary from Surrey loves the freedom of naturism and the thrill of being watched.” His fingers trembled as he turned the page, another shot, this time of her kneeling by a garden pond, water droplets clinging to her skin, her breasts perfectly framed by the sunlight.
A stiff breeze rattled the windowpane as if someone was trying to get in. He looked up guiltily, but there was no one there. He flicked through another magazine, and there was Mary pressed against the trunk of a distinctive oak tree with lightning damage, her back arched, fingers tangled in the leaves above her head like some pagan goddess caught mid-ritual. The tree’s shadow striped her body, emphasising the swell of her hips, the defiant jut of her nipples.
The next spread hit him like a punch to the gut: Mary sprawled across a leather couch, legs parted just enough to tease, while a man, not her husband, kissed her bare shoulder. The headline, “Mary Gets Wild!”
Nick’s face burned, but he couldn’t stop scanning the text. It described her as “adventurous” and “uninhibited,” with a preference for “shared experiences.” His mind reeled at the implication. Had this been going on for decades? Were these magazines just the tip of something far darker?
A muffled creak from the hallway made his stomach lurch. He slammed the magazine shut, shoving it back into the box with shaking hands, but not before glimpsing one last photo tucked between the pages: a Polaroid of Mary on her knees between two grinning men, her lips wrapped around one while her hand stroked the other.
His pulse roared as he lifted the box, too fast, as a stray photo fluttered to the floor. He snatched it up, then wished he hadn’t. Mary, older but unmistakable, straddling a much younger man on a sun lounger, her head thrown back in ecstasy. The man’s hands gripped her waist so hard his fingers dented her flesh. Nick’s vision swam. He’d seen that sun lounger before; it was the same faded teak one currently folded beside Mary’s garden shed.
He calmed down when he heard Mary’s bedroom door close and reached back into the box for the photo album. His hands shook as he turned another brittle page, revealing another image: Mary sandwiched between two grinning men barely older than Nick himself. Their hands were everywhere, one gripping her thigh, the other tangled in her hair, while her head tipped back in unmistakable pleasure.
The caption read: “Sophisticated widow, Mary likes them young and hungry, best served in pairs!” The air in the room thickened suddenly, pressing against his skin as if charged with static. His jeans grew uncomfortably tight.
A yellowed clipping slipped from between the pages, a newsletter from some naturist club. Circled in red ink was a grainy photo of Mary leading a group of college-aged guys by the hand toward a pool, her bare body gleaming under the text: “Our resident Cougar teaches the new boys how to relax!” Nick’s breath hitched. The dates matched his own birth year. Had she been doing this, collecting young men like trophies, since before he was born?
He suddenly heard footsteps on the stairs, and he hurriedly hefted the box into the wardrobe. The footsteps reached his room, and he jumped into bed quickly, turning the light off. The footsteps seemed to hesitate, then continued down the corridor. Then he heard Mary go back into her room.
He lay still listening, straining his ears to hear, but all was quiet. Slowly, he breathed out and closed his eyes. His mind was spinning with the images of Mary shown in the magazines. He pictured her again lying naked on the beach, arching her back as she posed for the photos. Sleep slowly overcame him.
That night, his dreams were filled with visions of Mary. He dreamed of her lying naked on a sun lounger, her skin glistening with sweat, her breasts rising and falling with each breath. He dreamed of her straddling him, her body moving against his, her hands gripping his shoulders as she moaned.
He woke up in a cold sweat, his heart pounding. The sheets were again tangled around his legs, and his body was aching with desire. He lay there for a moment, trying to shake off the dream, but the images of Mary were still burned into his mind. He could still feel her hands on his skin, her breath against his neck.
Friday came with an unexpected gift: a power outage at the office, sending everyone home at midday. The bus ride back felt illicit, sunlight slicing through the windows in a way Nick wasn’t accustomed to seeing. He fumbled with his keys at the front door, already composing some joke about capitalist productivity, when he noticed the silence. No murmuring from the kitchen radio, no clatter of dishes, just birdsong and the distant hum of a lawnmower.
His bedroom window was cracked open, letting in the drowsy scent of warm grass. The curtains fluttered as he tossed his tie onto the bed, and that’s when he saw her: Mary stretched on the teak sun lounger. He turned away but quickly turned back again. Had his eyes deceived him? But no, when he looked again, he saw the same thing. Mary was lying on the sun-lounger completely naked, a pair of bikini bottoms lay on the patio beside her.
She was lying on her front, facing towards the house with her bare bottom facing away from him. Nick stayed at the window watching, admiring her curvy body, which was colouring up nicely under the sun. Nick reached for his mobile phone. He knew it was naughty, but he couldn’t help it. He flicked on the camera and took a series of photos, zooming in for several. He ducked down quickly as he saw movement. Had he been spotted?
He gave it a few minutes before he carefully raised himself again and peered out from behind the curtain. Mary had turned over and was sitting up, applying sun tan oil to her body. Running her hands over her beautiful, full breasts. She had dark sunglasses on and, with the sun-lounger slightly tilted, was generally facing away from him, so he was sure she couldn’t see him. He brought up his camera again and took more photos, but this time he also changed it to the video setting and began recording her.
As he watched and recorded, she ran her hands down her stomach. She added more oil to her hands and brought her legs up as she rubbed the oil into her thigh, then worked down to her ankles. She then poured out more oil and began rubbing it into her smooth pussy. Nick took in a large intake of breath. This was beyond his widest dreams. He zoomed in with the camera again, catching her every movement. Was she actually running her fingers over her pussy lips, surely not… but yes, she was!
Nick realised that he was completely hard and couldn’t help but undo the zipper on his trousers, dropping them down, followed by his boxers, as he began to play with his hard cock. Although small when soft, it grew to seven inches when hard and had a good girth. He continued recording Mary, who had now lain back down again, while he played with himself, his breath now quite ragged as he tugged away.
It didn’t take long before he groaned and ejaculated into his hand. He reached over to his bedroom drawer, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the cum off his hand. He dropped the stained cloth on the carpet and pulled up his boxers and trousers. He continued watching Mary now while she was lying back, holding a book out, reading. After a while, she put down the book and appeared to be falling asleep.
Nick decided to pluck up his courage and leave his room and quietly went down the stairs, heading towards the side door. As he reached it, his nerves gave way; he started to turn away, but then thought better of it, so turned back to the door. Could he dare go out and marvel at Mary’s body close up? He decided to give her some warning, so he made a bit of noise as he opened the door, coughing loudly as he stepped out and walked around the corner of the house to the back garden.
Mary bolted upright in shock, grabbing a nearby towel and covering herself as she scrambled to sit up properly.
“Good God, Nick! You scared the life out of me!” she gasped, her cheeks flushing scarlet, whether from embarrassment or anger, he couldn’t tell. Her sunglasses slid down her nose, revealing wide, startled eyes. The scent of coconut oil hung thick in the air, mingling with the tang of freshly cut grass.
Nick froze mid-step, his throat suddenly dry. “S-sorry!” he stammered, eyes flickering despite himself to where the towel gaped slightly at her hip. “I thought, well, the office lost power, so I came home early…” His voice trailed off as Mary adjusted her grip on the towel, knuckles whitening. She exhaled sharply through her nose, then, unexpectedly, let out a low, husky laugh.
“Christ alive, boy,” she muttered, shaking her head. One hand kept the towel clamped while the other reached for her discarded bikini bottoms, fumbling with them under the terrycloth. “Get me my robe from the patio chair, quickly now.” Her tone carried the same crisp authority as when she’d scolded him for forgetting to take the bins out last week.
Nick scrambled to comply, his pulse hammering in his ears as he snatched the silky kimono-style robe. Up close, he caught the faint musk of her sweat beneath the coconut oil, the way her damp skin glowed where sunlight caught the curve of her shoulder. He handed it over without meeting her eyes, noticing how her fingers trembled slightly against his.
Mary stood abruptly, the towel slipping enough to reveal a flash of hip before she yanked the robe around herself. “Turn around, boy,” she ordered, voice huskier than usual. When he hesitated, she snapped her fingers, once, sharply, like she was summoning a misbehaving dog. Nick spun to face the hydrangeas, listening to the whisper of fabric as she dressed, the soft curse when she tangled the belt.
“You’re staying right there,” she said behind him. Her footsteps crunched on the gravel as she strode past, heading for the house. The robe clung slightly to the damp small of her back, and Nick caught the faint imprint of the lounger’s weave on her thighs before she disappeared through the French doors.
The silence stretched uncomfortably until the distant clink of ice cubes startled him. He turned to see Mary returning, gripping a large glass of white wine chilled with ice in each hand. She’d tied the robe properly now, but her hair was still mussed from lying down, strands clinging to her neck. “After that shock, I think we both need a drink to help us calm down and relax,” she said, not quite looking at him.
Nick hesitated, then accepted the glass she extended toward him. The condensation dripped onto his fingers as she sank onto the adjacent sun lounger with an audible exhale, her knees brushing his when she settled. The scent of wine mixed with the lingering coconut oil between them.
Mary took a long sip, her throat working before she finally met his gaze. “I’d appreciate discretion,” she said lightly, but the tightness around her eyes betrayed her. A bead of sweat slid down her temple; she swiped at it with the back of her hand, the robe’s sleeve slipping to reveal the faint tan line where her watch usually sat.
Nick gulped his wine too fast, the cold ache spreading through his teeth as he nodded. The ice cubes clinked when he lowered the glass, catching sunlight in fractured glitter. He forced himself to stare at the hydrangeas; now he knew exactly how pink their petals were, but his pulse jumped when Mary shifted, the lounger creaking under her weight.
Mary sighed, tilting her face toward the sun. The robe’s collar gaped slightly, revealing a crescent of damp skin where sweat beaded in the hollow of her throat. “I suppose I should apologise too,” she murmured. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass. “This garden’s always been private. Hard habit to break.” The admission hung between them, weighted like the humid air.
Nick watched a ladybird crawl across his knee, its tiny legs tickling. “So you… Do this often?” The question came out hoarse. Mary chuckled, a rich, knowing sound that made his ears burn, and stretched her legs out, the robe parting enough to show a sliver of thigh.
“Every afternoon when the weather permits,” she admitted, swirling her wine. Sunlight caught the gold chain around her ankle, a detail Nick had never noticed before. “It’s nothing scandalous. I just enjoy a nice all-over tan.” Her tone dared him to disagree, but when he risked a glance, her smile was softer than expected.
The ice in Nick’s glass cracked audibly as he processed this. Mary stretched like a cat, the robe’s fabric pulling taut across her chest for a heart-stopping second.
“Don’t look so shocked,” she teased. “Surely you’ve seen naked women before?” The quirk of her eyebrow made it clear she knew exactly how inexperienced he was.
A butterfly buzzed around them as Mary settled deeper into the lounger, the robe falling open just enough to reveal the sun-kissed slope of her breast.
“If you must know, it’s called naturism, actually,” she corrected gently. “Not some seedy exhibitionism, just enjoying the sun properly.” Her toes flexed in the grass, painted coral against the green. “You would be surprised how many people do it.”
Nick’s throat clicked when he swallowed, the wine suddenly bitter on his tongue. “So when you said the garden was private…”
He traced the condensation on his glass, avoiding the knowing curve of her smile. Mary nodded, stretching her arms behind her head with a contented sigh that pulled the robe dangerously taut across her chest.
“I bought this house specifically for the high walls,” she admitted, toes curling in the grass.
“Six years of blissful afternoons without a stitch on, until today.” Her laughter was warm, but her eyes lingered on his flushed face a beat too long. The ice in Nick’s glass shifted like his racing thoughts.
She tilted her wrist, letting sunlight catch the delicate gold chain, and now he noticed matching ones around both ankles. “It’s about feeling free, not sexual,” Mary said pointedly, but the way her robe parted as she crossed her legs suggested she knew the effect she was having. A bead of sweat slid between her breasts; Nick’s gaze flicked away just a hair too slow.
“Anyway, the sun’s setting now, so it’s probably time to have a shower and get changed, then I will fix us dinner. But tomorrow is expected to be a scorcher, so why don’t you sunbathe in the garden if you are not working?”
Nick could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples when he answered, struggling to keep his voice casual. “I didn’t actually pack any swim trunks when I moved down here,” he admitted, fingers tightening around his empty glass.
“Oh, don’t worry about that, I’m sure I can find something of mine that fits you. Don’t worry, all my bikini bottoms are washed and clean, but for now I am going to take a shower, dinner will be at 7 pm precisely.”
Mary rose from the lounger with effortless grace, the robe slipping open to reveal a tantalising glimpse of thigh before she tightened the belt with a practised tug. Her bare feet left faint damp prints on the flagstones as she walked toward the house, the gold chains at her ankles catching the fading sunlight with every step.
Nick remained rooted to his spot, the phantom scent of coconut and warm skin clinging to his senses. The empty wine glass trembled slightly in his grip as he watched her disappear through the French doors, leaving only the faintest imprint of her body on the cushion behind.
Nick was quite subdued at dinner and excused himself before 11 pm. In bed, he turned on his phone and looked through the photos and videos he had taken earlier. He copied them onto his laptop, which was plugged into a television on his chest of drawers. Now he could look at them on a larger screen. Again that night, he had the most amazing erotic dreams of Mary.