Having cracked it with Mandy, I was looking forward to some record-breaking. And the award for the lad who shagged both his girlfriend and her mother five times in a week goes to…
But things were about to get complicated. There was scheduling to consider now. For safety’s sake perhaps it would be better to have the Mandy sessions at my parents’ house but, for some reason, she didn’t want to do that. I concluded that she liked the security of her own surroundings and that doing it somewhere else was somehow more sinful. She was very churchy in those days and gave herself a hard time, even if no one else was on her case.
On the other front, I would be missing a lot of school if I was going to be doinking Mrs Hubert regularly. It was now the Easter holidays, but soon it would be back to school and A levels. On the other hand: that meant study leave, where you were allowed a few afternoons off to revise, because you were old enough to be trusted.
I was round there for coffee one morning, sitting in the sun lounge with Hubert the Younger when Hubert the Elder burst in, demanding to see her daughter in the kitchen. Mandy made an embarrassed face at me as she slunk off to see what kind of trouble she was in.
I read a magazine while I waited and she was back in a few minutes.
“The condom,” she said simply, and then urged me not to say anything.
You know how as a kid you take things without thinking – a fruit pie here, a yoghurt there, your Dad’s best shoes because yours are dirty and you’re now the same size. Plenty more where that came from – they’ll never notice. You don’t learn until you have kids of your own that parents notice everything and if the shit doesn’t hit the fan it’s because they’ve decided for whatever reason not to have a scene.
“She wants you to go so we can have a chat,” Mandy added at length, blissfully unaware that it wasn’t just her arse that would be in a sling if her Mum found out we had been at it.
I considered the idea of popping my head around the kitchen door and saying a cheery goodbye, but I didn’t have the guts. I just went home.
For a whole week, I heard nothing from Mandy. Maybe it was for the best. Ha-ha, what an adult idea; what a stupid adult waste of words. I was pining for her – for both of them, in fact. The wanking became like a competition and I would start off thinking about one, then my mind would wander to the other and I didn’t want to cum until I had made up my mind.
I wasn’t torn between them in reality, though. There could only be one winner. There was only one who was suitable.
In my demented young brain it was obvious that Mandy wasn’t mature enough for me. Mrs Hubert had the experience, the feminine nous that I needed. And if she and Bradley got divorced she would get shedloads of money and keep the house. She had lied about being on the pill, so clearly she wanted me to get her pregnant.
With one week of the holiday lef,t I was at home alone one morning when a car pulled up outside.
It was her, my older woman. My mistress.
She knocked on the back door and grunted, “You alone?”
I tried to smile but failed and she barged into the house.
“Where is your room?”
I took her upstairs and I didn’t know if I was going to be anointed or crucified.
I sat on the bed and picked up my guitar.
“She told me everything,” Mrs Hubert began, “in graphic detail. She can be a real bitch. A sanctimonious little cow but a bitch too.”
“What?” I said dumbly. “What did she tell you?”
“Oral sex. Penetration. Even the special things we did that most people don’t.” She paused and her face grew stormy.
“What has she got that I haven’t?” she growled. “She’s young, that’s all. So young that I put her over my knee and bloody spanked her like I used to when she was little. You should try it some time, I think she likes it.” She was trying to be two things at once: the victim and the gracious senior who can’t be hurt. Trouble was, I didn’t know which one was genuine.
Everything went quiet again on the Hubert front. It was summer term – my last term at school before university. I was studying a bit, moping around a lot and listening to music like it was about to be banned completely.
One Saturday night I went to a gig. Three local bands at the oh-so-cool Ex-Servicemen’s Club. The first lot, Plan W, were terrible, with an incompetent guitarist and a half-hearted girl singer who had lyric sheets on a music stand and wasn’t sexy enough to inspire a fantasy even in someone as easily pleased as me.
When the second band, The Boogie Boggers, turned out to be even worse, I gave it up as a bad job and cycled home.
It was only about ten o’clock but the downstairs was in darkness and cracks of light ran around the blackout curtains in my parents’ room. I sneaked a bit of my Dad’s Johnnie Walker and sat in the lounge in the dark. There was creaking from the floorboards above and the dreadful thought entered my head that my Mum and Dad might be having a bonk for old times’ sake. It was enough to turn my stomach and I decided to go to bed. My room wasat the other end of the house, on the upper floor of an extension where floorboards would not carry the quasi-erotic horrors to me.
As I tiptoed up the stairs in the dark I heard the bathroom door open and a female form stepped out and quietly, carefully closed the door. It was Mandy, naked as the day she was born but with a little more flesh around the arse.
She slipped slyly into my parents’ room and I slunk back downstairs, liberated some more Scotch and tried to make sense of it. Then the bedroom door opened again and there were footsteps on the carpet and then the stairs. A herd of people with a bit of giggling.
I hid behind the settee and peered around the edge towards the front door, where I saw a touching huddle – and there was plenty of touching going on. Mandy, fully dressed; Bradley, tucking his shirt into his trousers and – God, the trauma – my parents, wearing just bathrobes. They were all laughing and kissing and slipping hands where they shouldn’t be.
And then with a ragged chorus of quiet goodbyes, my girlfriend and her stepfather were gone and my parents went back upstairs.
There wasn’t much Scotch left by the time I was ready to go to bed, so I topped it up with tap water and placed it exactly where it had been. The master criminal/detective, full of alcohol and incriminating evidence but clear-headed enough to cover his tracks.
So it was Sunday morning and Mandy and Bradley would be in church (as would my parents, perish the thought). Mrs Hubert, who was disillusioned with religion and life itself, would be at home, working on the Sunday roast.
I waited for my parents to leave and then had a quick but thorough shower before grabbing my bike – that soon-to-be-ditched symbol of innocence – and was at the Hubert house in two minutes.
I went around to the back door, which I knew would be unlocked, and marched into the kitchen. And there she was, chopping carrots.
“Ooh, make yourself at home, won’t you?” she said, frantically trying to get the tone right, to balance ‘Get out of my fucking house’ with an unmistakable ‘Nice to see you.’
“Sorry,” I said, crumbling immediately in the presence of this immensely attractive, all-powerful mother figure.
“Ben, you look terrible,” she said. “Come and lie down.”
She took me into the spare room, our room, and we lay on the bed. Mrs Hubert’s hand started to roam beneath my t-shirt but I grabbed and stilled it.
“Stuff to tell you,” I said, almost trembling.
I recounted the sorry tale of the foursome at my parents’ and she listened in silence.
When I had finished she said nothing, then gave a loud and dismissive “Tchhh!” as if she’d heard the same old thing all over again.
“You knew?” I asked.
“Not the details,” she said. “But I had a good idea. I was pretty sure about her and him. Didn’t know about Frank and Mona. Did you?”
“Come on!” I said, exasperated. “Them? No.”
“Ah well,” she said. “Ah well, said the sole. Ah sole, said the well” It was a little joke Mandy had said from time to time.
“What a mess we’ve got you into,” Mrs Hubert said, one arm round my head and the other stroking my cheek.
I was struggling with the definition of my role. Big late-teenage guy, thinking he was a man, yet I wanted to cry.
Mrs Hubert leaned over me and kissed me tenderly on the lips.
“Oh Benjamin,” she said. “What can I do to make it better?”
Recovering quickly, I knew exactly what she could do.
“Sit on my face, Gloria.” It was the first time I had used her name because she had never invited me to. “Take your knickers off and sit on my face. Put your clitoris on my nose and let me lick your vagina.”
Sombrely she removed her clothes and knelt astride me, lowering herself with unerring erotic precision until she rested lightly on my face. I inhaled her savoury aroma and felt healed. Was it possible that there were angels after all and that last night’s fab four, now in a house of worship together, were in the wrong place?
I licked Mrs Hubert long and slow and the tender passion that enveloped us made it the most intense minutes of my life, before or since.
As we lay together afterwards, relaxed and comfortable in each other’s presence, and merely pausing before moving on to the next phase of our lovemaking, I brought up something I had wanted to discuss with her.
“Gloria,” I began hesitantly. “You know how I like to lick your arse? Is that okay?”
