I was barely in my twenties, married already to a vivacious little woman, six months younger than me. Jane was really, quite small, both in stature and figure. Going in and out in all the right places. Also, she was very pretty, which was a bonus and, I guess, the thing that attracted her to me in the first place.

Somehow, we had managed to qualify for a council home, a first-floor flat in a converted house. Looking back, it was a death trap with glazed doors to each room. Absolutely no fire breaks and no alternative escape route should a fire ever happen. Fortunately, it didn’t, but setting fire to a chip pan made it a close-run thing.

To be absolutely honest, neither of us knew what love was. We were far too young to fully appreciate the nuances of such a deep emotion. We did, however, understand lust and practiced that particular emotion like little bunnies. Of course, we had to learn what sex and anatomy were all about, and boy, did we learn fast, and often. But, despite the frequency of our exploits, a year of nuptials, we had been fruitless.

Jane worked in a sweatshop, knocking out dresses for the mass market. Rainbow Fashions wasn’t exactly haute couture and the pay reflected that. Fortunately, the factory was local, within walking distance. We didn’t own a vehicle.

My job was in a factory, making one-gallon tin cans for motor oil. The assembly line started with sheets of printed tin being split into correctly sized oblongs before being dumped into a hopper where the oblongs were folded, soldered and then went into a constructed wire spiral before dropping into another machine that topped and tailed the cans before being transported to packing and shrink-wrapping before transportation out. It was monotonous work. Smelly and the fumes from the solder where probably damaging to one’s health. I hated it, but it was a means to an end. It allowed me to study while minding the soldering point. The only excitement was when the line got a blockage and tin cans started to fly around in mangled missiles. How no one was sliced to bits escapes me.

Much of the workforce were women, mostly in their thirties and forties. They were a cruel bunch, united in their torment of the new recruits to the assembly line and utterly ruthless to any younger man. Many times, I was the victim of their wicked tongues that lashed any self-esteem I might have had. References to my manhood and its probable lack of length or girth were commonplace. Derogatory accusations of my perceived ineptitude as far as the opposite sex were a daily insult. Accidental tripping happened frequently and was positively dangerous, being in the workplace with hot metal and sharp edges abounding. The Foreman was next to useless. He had absolutely no control over these ladies. He was happy so long as the line kept on going. What the ladies said behind his back was shocking, to say the least. They had no regard for him at all.

It was one of those days when an accidental trip resulted in my head, meeting a corner of the cast iron machine I was working at. Head wounds bleed copiously and, in no time at all, blood was dripping down my face. It looked a lot worse than it actually was but, was enough for the line to be halted and the harridans, united as always, guiding me to the first aid point. That they had caused the accident in the first place was lost on them.

Once the flow of blood was staunched, they left me in the first aid room to go back to work. A young girl was left to keep watch over me. I say young, she was about the same age as me.

Etta had only been at the factory for a few weeks. We hadn’t had a chance to meet or become acquainted until she stood, sentinel-like and probably a little relieved to be away from the monotony of the production line. Not much was said between us before Mr. Lovecraft, the foremen, allowed that I should probably go home. Concussion? What concussion?

The next day, I sat outside at the back of the factory on a grass verge that overlooked the park that backed onto the factory grounds. My lunch was carefully laid out on greaseproof paper beside me and a flask of coffee alongside that. I avoided the canteen. Apart from not being able to afford the food on offer, the ribbing by the harridans was too much to bear. The sun beamed down on a warm afternoon.

Etta sat next to me quietly. I hadn’t noticed her approach until the rustle of her uniform coverall announced her squat. She asked how the head was and noticed the plaster to my forehead. We passed a few pleasantries, finished our sandwiches and flasks and then returned to work.

Over the next week or so, our lunch hour coincided, and our conversation became more in depth. Etta was an actress, between jobs, just filling in at the factory to make ends meet. She was slightly overweight, possibly, it was hard to tell in the loose coveralls. Her face was a little on the round side, not in any way less attractive. A button nose separated brown eyes all framed with auburn hair cut short to her neck. She was slightly shorter than my five foot eight, perhaps five six or so. But her most redeeming quality was her wit. Etta could tell a story with humour and a manner of description that often had me collapsed in fits of laughter. Tales of her exploits while treading the boards kept me enthralled as did her casting couch exploits. All grist to the mill to an inexperience young man. She certainly had been around the block a few times, if all she told me could be believed.

I suppose it was inevitable we would become lovers. Friendship had grown between us that gradually developed into touches and intimacies beyond that which would be considered appropriate for a married man. However, opportunity was limited in a factory setting. Lunch was the only time we could actually interact, but with all available space taken up by the business of making tin cans, finding somewhere secluded was virtually impossible.

Love, or in this case lust, will always find a way. With a little planning, I managed to create a space behind stacks of folded cardboard boxes used to put the finished cans in before packaging on pallets and dispatch. The storeroom was quite large, so it was quite easy to create our love nest away from prying eyes or accidental discovery. It did mean that we would have to crawl into the bower I had made. Undignified as it was, it did ensure privacy providing we were quiet.

I admit that our first exploration was somewhat abrupt. Being over excited, managing to get my cock into a new and willing vagina, had my spend escaping from me in very short order. It was embarrassing to say the least and meant Etta had to clean up before even getting short on breath. It was over, almost before it started. That she gave me another chance is to her credit, but it would have to wait until the next day.

Also, to her credit and experience, our next foray into our secret bower, found Etta on her knees, sucking on my cock until it exploded in her mouth. She spat it out and told me that I would last a lot longer fucking her, now that I had gotten rid of the first flush, as it were. She wasn’t wrong. Still fully clothed, with the exception of underwear, we rutted with me taking her from behind, and her guiding my fingers to her clit in an effort to make her come. Perhaps, after ten minutes and, with the exuberance of youth, I came inside her while her vaginal muscles rippled over my cock. To me, it was something fantastic and completely unheard of in my sexual pursuits and endeavours. I had never come twice before. Hurriedly, we adjusted our clothing and, on shaky legs, returned to the workplace.

So began an affair, limited to lunch times, during which Etta taught me all about her body. How to massage her G-spot, once I found it. How to limit the pressure on her clit until the moment of release. More importantly, how to lash her with my tongue until she could take no more. I found stroking her G-spot while sucking on her labia or flicking her clit to be the quickest way to get her motor running. She could come on that alone and my reward was to bury myself within her body until I reached my own climax. For her gentle guidance, I will always be grateful. I did discover my dislike of pubic hair, certainly in my mouth but, would put up with it so that she would get off. This was in the days when women shaving themselves bald was not a commonplace occurrence.

Inevitably, the harridans of the factory began to suspect that something was going on between us. Knowing looks would pass between them and elbow nudges would alert one another to my passing. Whispered conversations could be overheard and even tittering. The vindictive bitches must have squealed on us because Etta was moved, without ceremony, to another department in another building of the factory complex. A tearful Etta told me that these horrible women had ganged up on her, threatening all kinds of retribution. Our lunch-time meetings ceased. I did discover however, that I was now being viewed as available, flirting with me was ramped up to an uncomfortable level. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they were running a book on who would bed me first. They would all lose. I really didn’t like any one of them.

About a month later, Etta came to me during working hours. She needed to talk to me at the end of our shifts and to wait for her at the factory gates. That simple statement had me traumatised. Was she pregnant? That would spell disaster. Did she have an STD? Equally disastrous. My mind was in a turmoil until I clocked off and waited in the rain, for her to finish her shift.

It was with a great sense of relief when she eventually came out and told me, no she wasn’t pregnant. The relief was replaced with sorrow to learn that she had scored a part in the West End and would be leaving at the end of the week. Of course, I wished her well and success.

She asked me to follow her home so that we could spend some time together, a goodbye fuck perhaps. We arranged it for the following day, I could claim working overtime to Jane. I was to follow at a distance so that the women of the factory wouldn’t notice and set their tongues wagging.

Was I excited? Yes. Was I sad that this would be our last time? Yes again. But a young man is led by his smaller, brainless head and its libido, so complied with no second thought.

After a ten-minute walk through the park and into the streets beyond, with me acting like a poor imitation of a private eye on a stake-out, Etta ducked into the doorway of a Victoria townhouse. She left the door ajar so that I could follow, un-noticed. We climbed a set of wooden stairs with a winder at half height and then to a short corridor on the first floor. Etta unlocked a door on the righthand side and finger-beckoned me to follow her into her home. It turned out to be a two roomed bed-sit, comprising of a bedroom-cum-living room, a kitchenette off to one side and a bathroom. It was small and really, quite compact. The furniture, such that it was, showed signs of age and wear. But it was scrupulously clean and neat.

Dropping her coat, Etta turned to me with a single step, she closed the distance between us and threw her arms around my neck. A gentle kiss on the lips soon turned into a much more passionate kiss, mouths open and tongues entwined. Our temperature rose and breath became a bit short until we stepped back from each other. She invited me to sit and offered coffee. I sat on the edge of her bed but declined the coffee. She said she wouldn’t be a minute and closed the bathroom door behind her.

A few minutes later, Etta emerged from the bathroom, naked. It was the first time I had seen Etta naked. Usually, she just had her coveralls hiked up around her hips and her panties around her ankles. Divest of clothing, Etta wasn’t overweight as I had imagined. Her work clothes had been successful in hiding her figure. Her pointy breasts stood out proudly with no sag to them. Her small pink nipples had a small areole, also pink, but slightly darker in hue. Her stomach was pretty flat with only a slight bulge which might, in time, expand to fat later in life. Her public hair was darker than her auburn locks, almost black. She had slender legs, longer than I had imagined. All in all, she was a vision of loveliness.

I told her she looked beautiful. I meant it. She had taken my breath away and of course, was a surprise, coming from the bathroom nude with no more than a smile on.

She came to me then, having basked in my appraisal long enough. Piece by piece, she undressed me, taking her time and folding each garment as it came away. As if in a dream, I didn’t move until she had removed all my clothes. My shoes and socks were fun with a raging hard on poking at her cheeks. We laughed. But then, once everything was off, she became serious and, without preamble, sucked my length into her mouth.

I warned her that, if she kept sucking me, I wouldn’t last long. Etta stood up and told me to stand with my back against the wall. She turned and fished around in a drawer of her bedside cabinet. When she turned around, she had a tube of KY jelly in her hand. I admit to being unsure of what was to come next. She squatted down in front of me once more and told me to spread my feet. Her mouth once again, enveloped my cock. She told me, between bobs of her head, that she was going to make me come like I had never done before. Suddenly, I felt a finger brushing against my butt, the KY jelly was cold producing an involuntary clench. She told me to relax. I tried but was really, out of my depth.

She inserted a finger into my anus and started to massage my prostate. It was a bit uncomfortable at first, I had never been invaded before. But then, as she sucked my length to the back of her throat, the pressure and pleasure started to take me to a level I hadn’t found before. Expertly, she manipulated me, bringing me almost to the point of ejaculate before stopping the finger massage and looking up at me from her squatting position.

She asked me if I was enjoying what she was doing. Dumbly, I could only nod my head. And then she started all over again.

I was getting very close to losing the unequal battle of holding back and warned her that I was about to explode. Etta buried my cock into her throat and increased the tempo of her finger. I can say in all honesty, I had never reached a climax quite like that one. For me, orgasm lasts perhaps ten seconds, this time, and with her continuing to massage my prostate, it was more like thirty seconds but felt so much longer. Even after I had ejected every drop of come into her throat, tremors coursed through my body. It was as close to heaven as possible while still on this mortal coil. My knees had given up trying to support me, Etta had managed to keep me upright while fingering me. I couldn’t speak, so overwhelming had been the experience.

Etta told me to lay on the bed and asked if I had done anal sex before. I admitted that I had not. “Well, it is a night of firsts for you, isn’t it?" she said.

She fished a durex from the drawer and came to me on the bed. Laying alongside me, Etta began to stroke my limp cock, coaxing it back to hardness. Once she was satisfied that I could maintain an erection, she slipped the durex on with expert fingers then straddled me. She applied some of the KY jelly to her arse and guided me into her. Slowly, she sank onto my cock, easing me into her until fully seated. Her tightness felt constricting at first. Etta began to thrust her pelvis back and forth, driving me even further into her depths. Her eyes were closed, and she emitted a low hum at the back of her throat. She lifted a little, enough to allow her fingers to slip into her cunt. I could feel her fingers massage her G-spot through the thin membrane. It was heavenly.

We managed to work a rhythm, mutually satisfying and wouldn’t have me blowing my load too quickly, even though this was a new and exhilarating experience for me. Etta’s pace increased and the hum had become a whine, gradually increasing in volume. Pretty soon, the pace was frenetic, and the whine had become a wail. That Etta was coming was obvious. I had never seen or heard her reach orgasm before. Not from want of trying in our lunchtime forays. She sighed and leant forward until her head was on my chest. My arms went around her while she calmed. It was a moment of quietude that followed, a shared moment while heartbeats returned to normal.

She got up, pulling the spent condom from my flaccid dick. It was obvious that I hadn’t come. It hit the bottom of her bedside waste bin. Shortly after, we were fucking missionary, with me pounding and her legs locked behind my back, pulling me into her. I was able to kiss her and fondle her tits, something I had never had the chance to do before. Etta encouraged me, urging me to completion, something I was ready to oblige. My spend blasted into her at last. Not quite to the same intensity as earlier, but no less satisfying.

Sometime later, after a cup of coffee, I dressed and began making overtures to leave. I needed to get home before it was too late to be explainable.  We kissed at her door with arms thrown around each other. It was the last time I saw Etta but not the last time I would think of her.

Does the end of this story feel rushed? Well, yes, I guess it does. But that was how the affair was, short and slightly rushed. From lunchtime quickies to an evening, filled with sexual discoveries and exploration.

If Jane ever wondered where my newfound sexual prowess came from, she never asked, but almost a year later, our daughter was brought into the world. I couldn’t talk Jane into Etta for a name. We settled on Emma. Close enough.