What is Jen up to? I ask myself as I click on the LushStories website.

“Yeah!” I say to myself as a silly grin slips onto my face. There is a new competition and I normally do well at these. My mind suddenly goes into overdrive as my interest peaks.

I read on.

“Punked!” I exclaim, once again, to the four walls of my home office.

“What the fuck!” I have no idea what that word means.

Here I am, Mrs Rachael Andrews, forty-six, an English schoolteacher with two fucking degrees. Alright, not degrees in fucking, English Language and English Literature to be exact, and yet I have no idea about this competition subject matter.

What does ‘Punked’ really mean?

I read the competition notes, and analyse them… Cyberpunk, Steampunk, Gothicpunk, and in my mind, I see robots, steam engines, and Batman; yet I am still none the wiser.

I question myself… There must be a good story idea out there; how about a steam-driven robot that is shaped like Batman?

I mutter, “That is a bad idea!”

Rachael, I thought, as my brain starts to talk to itself, you’re better than this. Get some of your own ideas, and don’t just delve into Google. I will ask Mike, my husband, he may see the word Punked from a different angle and he’s been known to have the occasional good story idea.

I leave my office with a little more hope and go to the living room. I know he is in there, watching the big football match, his team being Arsenal.

“Who’s playing?” I ask, not having a clue. When I don’t get an immediate reply, I ruffle his too-long, greying hair.  

“Manchester United, Arsenal,” he grunts, his eyes never leaving the screen as kick-off approaches.

“Mike, if I say ‘Punked’, what does that mean to you?”

My husband turns and looks at me, confused. As he does so, I know his eyes are only temporarily withdrawn from the television.

“Punked?” he questions.

“Yes, Punked,” I confirm as I suddenly realise I have now said that word more times in the last five minutes than I have done in my life. 

“Rachael, to me, it means a prank.” He hesitated, still thinking, “Or something to do with Punk Rock.”

“Why do you ask?”

I explained to my husband about the LushStories competition, though I had the feeling he tuned out a little when he realised it was to do with my writing. He knows how I take it seriously, how I like to do well… even win. It was a bit like him and how he supports his favourite professional football team.

“So Mike, does Cyberpunk, Steampunk, Gothicpunk; there are others, mean anything to you?”

My husband quickly glances back at the telly; I know he is only interested in the football. I notice the players are now tossing a coin. Even a football Luddite like me knows that means kick-off is imminent.

“You could try our son or John. He was a Punk Rocker, back in the day,” Mike grunts without turning his head, his mind now on the telly.

With the sound of the whistle, I leave Mike to his sixty-inch game of football and sink back into my office chair; my mind rapidly shifting away from my story.

The name John had sent a tingle through my body. He was a player, the bad boy of the neighbourhood, older, always up to something a little crooked. Everyone knew that in his youth he had been to prison. Though more importantly, he had been hitting on me since he moved back into the neighbourhood, just two doors down, six weeks ago.

I thought back to two weeks ago and the late summer barbecue which we hosted. How John, fuelled with alcohol, had come up behind me and whispered in my ear, “Rachael, I want to fuck you!”

How his hand gently rested on my bottom and then caressed it, and with it, that shiver which followed. How it resonated up and down my spine, my nerves sending their brief messages, upwards, to my temporal lobes, and then downwards straight to my pussy. They were erotic quivers of unexpected sexual pleasure.

But what shocked me, more than John’s loose and slightly slurred words, was my reaction. I hadn’t pushed his hand away. I had let it wander over my tight summer shorts, feel me, and incite wanton thoughts that had been long lurking deep within me.

John’s action went unnoticed and unrewarded; I hadn’t told Mike; I just couldn’t.

But there was something else; I knew that the physical attraction went both ways. John was so different to my husband, ten years older, shaven-headed, stocky, and even slightly craggy; with both his arms sleeved with tattoos. Mike was almost the polar opposite, tall, long-haired, slim, even gangly, and somewhat geeky.

Mike was a sports watcher rather than a player, while John was unmarried and definitely a player when it came to bedding women. There was no doubt he wanted to add me to his harem.

But was I tempted?

I thought back, that illicit moment, it had continued… John had pulled me into him, his hand placing mine onto the front of his shorts.

It was an action which had caused me to gasp as my body tensed up. But it had also given my hand new life… I squeezed his semi-hard cock. It was long, very thick, so much larger than my husband’s. It felt like a python lurking there, beneath the thin material, ready to slither out and wrap around me, enticing me into John’s arms and his harem.

I remembered John’s brown eyes, and how they had bored into me, searching my soul, looking for the recognition that I wanted him… my reaction, a mask. I tried my best to keep my face neutral. But it was there, if he looked hard enough. That instant dampness between my legs, the thought which flashed through me, that I wished we were on our own.

My physical reaction, after my gentle squeeze… I had turned to find the safety net of my husband, but at that moment, my mind and my pussy were still lurking with John.

I felt flushed and dreamy, sitting there in my office; thinking back to that night, to John, to his cock. My hand was now in my shorts, resting on my sparse, red pubic hair, and my fingers exploring my damp slit. My intimate, private thoughts left me horny, but mainly confused.

It was a similar feeling to what I was now having with this new story competition.

That night, it had happened all so fast, yet every second had been embedded, deep within my mind. At forty-six, it had been my first experience of a man coming so strongly onto me, but it made me realise something… I liked it!

I removed my hand; I needed to phone our son, Adam.

At twenty-six he was still single, but also not gay. Adam worked in I.T. and lived on his own in a small house only a few miles away. Instead of girlfriends and partying, he had chosen to spend most of his life living in the virtual world. He was a good choice to talk to when it came to fantasy genres as he lived them, playing his Dungeons and Dragons, and his other adventure computer games.

As I pick up my mobile phone, I chuckle to myself, my horniness now temporally forgotten. Adam thinks I write historical romance stories, not hot, steamy erotica.

“Hi Adam, mum here,” I cheerfully say, knowing I am going to get a grunt. I then hear it. I smile; it is the same sound that Mike made to me earlier.

“I know mum, we have caller I.D. these days… Please wait a sec.” I smile. This is so familiar, of course. I knew about caller I.D. but I didn’t want my son to think that I might know something about the modern age. Technology was his job, and asking him about it gave me a good reason to phone him.

“Hi Mum,” then after the normal greetings I went on to explain to Adam about my sudden interest in ‘Punk’ genres, and could he help me?

“Cool mum, Mills & Boon, in a punk environment! That beats your normal historical romances.”

I chuckle to myself. If only he knew.

Adam goes through some of the more popular punk genres. He corrected me about Cyberpunk; it was more than just robots. Steampunk wasn’t just about steam engines; it was about the Victorian era and the use of steam to power, elaborate contraptions. As for Gothicpunk, well, that still sounded like ‘Batman’ to me.

Adam signs off with, “Mum, you need to remember there are hundreds of punk genres. You need to research online, but at the heart of it… is all about non-conformity, fighting cooperative greed and revolution. Though I am not sure how you are going to fit that into your romance story.”

“Neither am I, Adam, neither am l, but thank you… and power to the people.”

Adam laughs as we sign off.

An internet search confirmed quite a bit of what Adam had said, but as I scanned the electronic pages, my mind kept getting drawn back to Punk Rock. Perhaps more accurately, to John and his python cock. I would rather write a story about that!

I sit back in my chair and close my eyes and think. I realise I need time, time to think about John, time to think about my competition story.

As my mind drifts, and my hand slips once again between my legs, I ask myself two questions…

Do I want to resist John’s advances?

Start an affair?

*****

It was exactly a week later, Sunday, and Mike was watching another football match. My feelings towards writing a story about Punk Rockers had grown; a nice steamy romance, with objectionable overtones, the Punk on the street corner.

It was a thought which had started to envelop me, as did the idea of going around to see John for further information.

I didn’t need Cyberpunk, Steampunk or any other imaginary genres. My story was going to be set in the real world, late suburban nineteen-seventies; with Punk Rockers, weird hairstyles and fashions; an anti-establishment, historical romance, with lots of sex.

As I sit here in my office, I start smiling, that idea now growing and grabbing me as my typing fingers start to get twitchy.

It was time to start researching Punk Rockers.

*****

I may have moved into our London suburb when I married my husband, but Mike’s relationship with John went way back, right to his childhood. They were next-door neighbours. However, the ten years age difference between them had made it difficult for them to be close friends, but Mike told me there was mutual respect, and never any trouble between them.

They were also quite different. Mike was quiet, shy, and intelligent; John was almost the opposite. He was the local yob and a member of the local, late nineteen-seventy, Punk Rocker gang. They lived on the street corner and specialised in frightening anyone who walked past.   

I had heard the stories, the way the gang used to relieve children of their dinner money, skive off school, do petty vandalism and generally be obnoxious. Though my husband had told me, the gang never did anything to him or his family.

When they grew up, my husband became a teacher; John worked in construction but somehow got caught up in a building scam and ended up spending a short time in prison. As the years passed, there were nods between the two, and small chats in the street as they ran into each other, but nothing more.

I looked on from afar until John moved into our street. Now things felt so very different.

Here I am, a forty-six-year-old married mother. With long red hair, C-cup perky tits, a trim figure, a perk bottom and my best feature, my long dances legs, thinking of our neighbour, two doors down; a small-time crook with an enormous cock.

I am once again that schoolgirl, thinking about a hot guy across the class.

For me, it was Timothy Burton, my first boyfriend. He took my virginity at sixteen, and was more like Mike, never the bad boy, quiet, a little shy but with cute dimples and a cheeky smile. Tim and I did a lot of growing up together, not just sex, but blossoming into young adults.

But he didn’t stand a chance when Mike appeared. I was eighteen and had just started University.

Mike was four years older and wiser. To me, he seemed so grown up. It wasn’t long before we were seriously dating. Tim was now a fading memory. Our dating became courting, our sex life fairly vanilla, but regular. Mike and I married, and Adam came along. He was unplanned but never regretted by me, especially as, despite trying, no other children were conceived.

In those three years, I grew up so much; it was when we moved here, London suburbia, to a place we have never left. My youth, and any planned exciting life, were all put on hold when I became a wife and a mother.

But it never occurred to me until recently that I might be missing out sexually. That some girls were enjoying a different type of sexual utopia, one more in line with what I write about. It was the knowledge that I first learned from girlfriends, and then from watching the ‘Chippendales’ stage show, and finally internet porn. But it was our neighbour, John, who confirmed it; the fact that the only men I had been sexual with, Timothy and Mike, have, at best, average-size cocks.

Over the years, I found my solace and my sexual excitement through my writing. I am Rachael Andrews, a wife, a mother, an English teacher; but also importantly, an author of twenty erotic novels and countless erotic stories.

As I sit there, it is a thought which makes me smile and then grin, but then I feel something different. My grin was gone. I realise once again, it only took one little word to give me writer’s block.   

Yes, I got stuck as soon as the word ‘Punked’ came up, but I have made my mind up. I am going to win this story writing competition.

I click my fingers and look at my computer screen. Its blankness stares back at me. It is time to write the first line of my competition entry, my working title, ‘Punk Rocked’ then I hesitate, that oh-so-important first line.

I smile, then giggle to myself, and think, I can always change it later.

My fingers press the keys… ‘Once upon a time, in the late nineteen-seventies…’

*****

I love Mike, his dry humour, and his intelligence, but on the physical side, especially sex, I have come to realise that I find him lacking. Over the years, we have just fallen into a routine. Those romantic meals, and compliments, dried up as our teaching careers progressed and Adam grew, and then became independent. 

It never used to be that way, despite his cock being less than six inches. Mike was inventive during our lovemaking, knowing just where to touch me, what position to have me, and those sweet words; kind, murmuring words of affection as we made love.

Now things had changed, we had become too familiar. Mike had become strictly a once-a-week man in the missionary position. Yes, it was nice but hardly exciting… and certainly, not something I would think about while masturbating. For that, I had frequently been thinking of John’s big cock.

I know we should talk, but isn’t that what they all say?

If we did talk, it wouldn’t make Mike’s cock any larger.

John’s sexual overtones towards me got me thinking. I didn’t want to cheat on my husband; I just wanted sex with another man, a very well-hung guy. Just like in my stories, where the damsel’s Prince whisks her away and then pounds her with his enormous lance.

I pause, sitting there at my office desk, with just three more lines written.

I just sit there, looking at the screen, my mind now wandering, that familiar feeling in my pussy. I spread my legs and push my hand between them as I start to masturbate. My mind's image, John and our barbecue flirting, masturbation and that brief dalliance had become the way I sought sexual relief.

As my hand works away, I ask myself a now familiar question… How big was John’s cock?

I need to know. It was at least twice as long as Mike’s and thick… that girth!

Its size was worthy of one of my stories.

I bite my lip as my fingers brush my clit, that well-known feeling in my loins as my hand works its magic, inspiring me and my writing. My pussy is on fire as my mind’s erotic emotions take me to unfamiliar places, inspiring ideas, and plot lines… but as it does, there was an undertone of John’s words…

“Rachael, I want to fuck you.”

I bite my lip, and my body, even my mind, quietly tremors.

Could I?

Is this a midlife crisis?

Those questions never got answered, as my body’s tremor rumbles into a full-on orgasm; my spare hand now muffling my sexual cry… Though I doubt any noise would disturb Mike and take him away from his football.

*****

It was another week and yet another Sunday football match. This time, Arsenal versus Tottenham; it was the local derby. Mike was once again planted in front of the sixty-inch television screen.

My LushStories competition story was coming along. The first draft was nearly there, with me having chipped away at it over the last week. In doing so, I often looked for inspiration, which I mainly find through my right hand and masturbation.

Though I was still searching for that definite story thread, perhaps more infuriatingly, I still did not have a good title, only the working one, ‘Punk Rocked.’

But something had changed. My attraction towards John had increased a notch after I had a brief chance meeting with him at the local supermarket.

I bumped into him, quite literally as our food trolleys lightly brushed at the corner of aisle fifteen. It was only as we looked up, and said a mutual sorry, that we recognised each other; my legs going weak, my eyes unintentionally flashing to his cock. I once again felt like that little schoolgirl, just like the first time I saw Timothy… and two years later, Mike.

My neighbour just took all my energy. My endorphins started to run amok as my mind, almost subconsciously, thought about what was in John’s trousers, his python cock.

That brief meeting turned into a flirtation. John’s smile and brown eyes pulled me in, as I mentioned to him that I was writing a story about Punk Rockers and Mike had told me that he used to be one.

Could he help me?

It was a question that made him grin and me blush.

“Why don’t you do your research, Mrs Rachael Andrews, and then come round to my place dressed like one? I am sure if you do that for me, I will be only too pleased to help you with your ‘Punk’ research.”

I weakly smiled at those words; his eyes visibly undressing me as we stood there, at the end of aisle fifteen, our neighbours all around, and me wanting to ask that one prevalent question.

John, how big is your cock?

Of course, I didn’t ask the question. Or answer John’s request. I was too polite, too unsure, but at the same time we both knew I was going to do it; that it was the attraction of opposites.

“See you about, Mrs Rachael Andrews,” John whispered as we went our separate ways.

He might have just as well said, “Rachael, I want to fuck you!”

My pussy was so wet.

John was pulling me in, and I felt just like a fish being reeled into his invisible harem net.

*****

After our weekly Saturday morning fumble in bed, leaving me once again unsatisfied, I ask Mike about the seventies. What was it really like?

“Rachael, I was born in nineteen-seventy-two!”  Mike quietly exclaims.

I know that.

“So I only remember the end of them,” he grumbles, before asking. “Is it about that writing competition again?”

I admit it was.

“You need to talk to John. He lived the seventies life. He can help you more than me.”

Was there a hidden message there? I thought as my mind once again thought of cock size.

I look at my husband; did I want to take that final step? Have an affair, and sample John’s big cock. I feel guilty as I look at Mike, my husband of twenty-seven years, a small grin now creeping across his handsome face, making my head question…

Did he know?

Should I say something?

I know I should, but my pussy is telling me a different story.

Mike was now fifty, and our sex life isn’t what it used to be, just Saturday morning missionary position sex. Sometimes it was tender lovemaking, which was nice. But occasionally a girl needs more than just that… I need excitement, hard, dirty sex, just like I write about in my stories.

Since the barbecue, those words, “Rachael, I want to fuck you!” had eaten into me. Small bite-size chunks had slowly nibbled away at all rationality… and all resistance. My mind had come to be dominated by only thinking of John’s big cock, and my pussy stretched tightly around it.

I couldn’t help but shudder at the wicked thought; l want, and need to ride a big cock.

John’s cock.

Later, I sit there in my office, my story advancing nicely; I start to think of what I was going to be wearing to John’s tomorrow. I had done my research…

It was going to be a short, black leather miniskirt, with black fishnet tights with a large mesh. On my top was a white Clash T-shirt, and to bring it all together, a black leather belt with large silver metal studs equispaced around it. For footwear, that had been more difficult, but the local charity shop came to my rescue. I found some black, chunky ankle boots, not quite Doc Martens, but close.

I sit back, spread my legs, and push my hand into my panties. I once again need sexual relief, my mind, as always, thinking of John and what was lurking in his trousers.

*****

It was another Sunday in suburbia and another televised football match. It was also four weeks since the announcement of the new LushStories competition. My story was close to being finished, but it still needed a title, something short, and hard-hitting.

Once again, Mike is watching his beloved Arsenal. This time, they are away at Liverpool.

“Are you going to be watching that all afternoon?” I ask, though this time I hope the answer is yes, as I need some time alone. I need to get ready and then see John.

“And the match afterwards,” Mike grins.

From his reaction, I know he is expecting me to say something, even complain, but not today. I am going to see John; it had been all arranged. I want to ask him about Punk Rockers, but we both knew it would be more than that.

During the week, I had phoned John. I wanted to give myself one last chance before I went around to see him. Maybe become just another woman in his neighbourhood harem.

I was trying to get an insight into the feeling on the street during the late nineteen-seventies, but he would only say to me…

“Mrs Rachael Andrews, you know the score. Research the clothes, and I see you here, Sunday at three. I expect you to be dressed as my Punk Rocker girlfriend did at the time, and note, she never wore very much in the way of clothing.”

That threw me, as I had never really expected that I would need to dress up like a Punk Rocker; I am forty-six, but the idea also intrigued me. I would be fully in character. Maybe it would help me with my nerves, sleeping with another man.

I just sit there, my pussy throbbing, yet untouched… I knew this afternoon I would be stepping into John’s harem!

*****

I stand there at John’s door, feeling excited, aroused, but most of all a little giggly, like a schoolgirl dressed for her prom date. I slip my full-length coat off and my punk girlfriend costume comes into view. As it does, I feel my nipples stiffen.

I whisper to myself, “There is no going back now, girl.”

Breathing in, I reach forward and press the doorbell.

The door opens and John is standing there, dressed as a Punk Rocker. We both smile at each other, a nervous tension in the air. I step through his front door, over the threshold. I was in his harem, dressed like his late-nineteen-seventies girlfriend.

We stand back, looking at each other, my bare hard nipples poking through my white shirt; their areolas are visible through the thin material. My panties are now soaked.

This is the moment of no return.

“John, how big is your cock?” I blurt, my eyes darting down to his leather trousers.

He grins, then chuckles, the sexual tension still there but my nerves leaving me as my mouth joins John’s chuckle. That question had been etched on my mind for a month. I really need to know. 

“Ten and a half inches, but more importantly it is thick, nearly three inches in diameter.”

John’s answer made me involuntarily gasp, as that was enormous. I know I was going to cheat on my husband, but I must have also looked concerned as my neighbour then added…

“Don’t worry, Rachael, I am sure with time, your cunt will get used to it and eventually enjoy it.”

I gasp again and then realise my cheating was going to be happening more than once.

John grins. “Don’t worry Mrs Rachael Andrews; you are just about to get PUNKED!”

I smile, then giggle, but not for the obvious reason, as I had just heard the title of my competition story…

And now it was time to do some further research!

Authors Note:- All characters engaged in sexual acts are 18+  ©2023 wxt55uk. This story may not be reproduced in any manner, without the express permission of the author.