How did it come to this?

I’m sitting between my wide-eyed and frankly startled parents, waiting for my name to be called. My mum keeps saying that I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of and that I have done nothing wrong.

“It’s all her fault,” she insists, “she made you do it; her and that twisted husband of hers, they forced you.” That’s what she wants to believe, and I let her.

The press, of course, is having a field day. Stories of our relationship have covered the front pages of the nation’s newspapers ever since the story first broke. Incredibly, they have even managed to get some of the details correct, but of course, they have added their own sordid twist as they sense blood.

It seems such a long time ago now since the police arrived at school and I was swiftly ushered out of the classroom and into the headmaster’s study. I was interviewed with the headmaster, Mr Powley, sitting beside me. At first, I denied the allegations, but soon it became obvious that they knew more than I had first thought, and the full realisation of the situation dawned on me.

Then the police seized my phone, and that’s when I knew that it was truly over. That phone contained everything. All the evidence that they needed was on there: text messages, phone calls, and several photos and video clips.

Embarrassingly, it all soon became public knowledge. Somehow the press had obtained and published leaked text messages and a few photos. Body parts had been blurred out of course, but it didn’t take a genius to work it out from the headlines who it was.

Unlike my mum, dad was quite relaxed about it. He could see that all this had done was to enhance my already blossoming reputation, and it had. I’ve become quite the local celebrity since the news broke, adept at noticing the subtle sideways glances and the secretive whispered comments spoken behind hands as I passed them in the street.

Take the pretty, brown-haired police officer, who at this moment is standing opposite me by the door that led to the pressroom for example. She thinks that I haven’t noticed, but every so often she looks over at me and down to my crotch. She lingers for a few seconds then quickly diverts her gaze so as not to be seen.

On the third such occasion, and using as much discretion as I could, I opened my legs slightly and enjoyed watching her absorbed expression as she bit her bottom lip. This time I confront her, and as she raises her eyes, her gaze is met by mine. I’m staring right at her, our eyes locked, my smile as wide as a Cheshire Cat.

She gives me a kind of bashful half-smile, but her reddening cheeks seal her guilt. I assess that’s she is in her mid to late twenties, the gold ring on the third finger of her left hand should be a warning, but the experiences that I’ve picked up in my short adult life tell me that she would be more than willing to take the risk. It happens more than you would imagine, believe me.

But this circus is incredible. We’ve had the press camped outside our home for days. My older sister is loving the attention, squealing like a child every time she appears on the tv. I’ve been offered a six-figure sum to spill my guts to the baying tabloids but turned them all down. Thankfully, the other party has kept a dignified silence up to now, and that’s how I want it to stay.

The worry for me is that if I start opening up, it would prompt an aggressive response. There is plenty that they could say about that time that I would prefer to stay hidden. There are things that we have done that would certainly change the public’s opinion of me.

I’m not quite the innocent young man that I’ve been painted, the wide-eyed boy caught up in a social and political scandal, way out of my depth. My name has even been mentioned at Prime Minister’s Questions in the House of Commons.

In the inside pocket of my jacket, I have a carefully worded statement, drafted by a team of solicitors, which I am to read out to the world’s media. It is fairly neutral to be honest, not the strongly worded message, full of accusations and denial that was originally planned.

The reality is, what started out as a bit of fun quickly got out of my control. No one was supposed to get hurt, but they did. The real centre of attention isn’t me at all, I just got caught up in the storm

So how did it come to this?

My name is Joseph Potter, although everyone, including my mother, calls me Joey. I’ve always been a bit cocky or cheeky. My Nan always called me a little bugger and I guess all of these descriptions aren’t a million miles from the truth. It kind of comes naturally. Dad runs a fruit and veg market stall on Chapel Lane, and I’ve been helping him out on it since I was about ten. You have to be sharp to work amongst these people, on your toes, quick-witted. There’s nowhere to hide.

I didn’t think that I was any different from anybody else, but that all changed in the showers after PE one afternoon when I was sixteen. Johnny Miller’s big mouth started the ball rolling and suddenly I was the flavour of the month. All the girls wanted to find out if it was true.

It was Mandy Conway who got to confirm the rumour. She is a couple of years older than me and the sister of Billy, a good friend of mine. During her mother’s birthday party, she sneaked me away from the house and into this old caravan that never moved from their back garden.

Mandy and her friend Janice had been goading me all night, aiming these lewd comments at me with their obvious innuendo. Now I’ve had a bit of a thing for Mandy for a while. We live in the same street and, don’t get me wrong, I love her and her family to bits, but, well, how can I put this she has a bit of a reputation.

I remember my dad saying once, “Even the Dartford Crossing closes occasionally.” Everyone laughed, but you get the picture.

In the summer she would lie out in the backyard, totally aware that anyone looking out of their back-bedroom window could see her. Now my bedroom window was at the back of our house, four doors down from the Conways. If I cracked the window slightly, I had a perfect view of her. And she knew it.

In fact, I always thought that she positioned her deckchair for my benefit. Compared to the other girls, she was well developed. Don’t ask me to even guess her bra size, but she was visibly ahead of the game. I would stand transfixed at the window and watch her put on a show, slowly rubbing the sun lotion onto her skin, and then spending an inordinate amount of time massaging the cream into her exposed cleavage and the inside of her thighs.

All the time my adolescent hormones were raging as I imagined the treasures that lay beneath that bulging bikini top. She would tease me by turning her back and unclipping her top, raising my hopes as I rubbed myself, praying that today would be the day of the great reveal.

Of course, that day never arrived. She knew exactly what she was doing, and no doubt she knew what I was doing also. In my reverie, I imagined so much more. Visualising her naked body stretched out for my enjoyment as I soiled yet another grey school sock.

And so it was, on the cracked, flaking foam caravan seating that she took my virginity, amongst the cardboard boxes full of used motor parts. I followed Mandy’s lead, taking off my jeans as she lifted her skirt and slid down her black knickers, expertly secreting them in her handbag.

“Do you have anything?” she murmured.

“What?”

“A condom.” It hadn’t occurred to me.

“No.”

I heard her tut as she searched her handbag and handed me the square, shrink-wrapped packet. I anxiously tore it open and removed its circular contents, holding it mystifyingly in my hand.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’ve …” I stumbled.

“Give it here,” she said, impatiently snatching the coiled sheath from my grasp. “Fucking hell, Joey,” she scolded, as I felt the strange, clinging material touch the sensitive head of my circumcised cock, flinching at the uncomfortable tightness as she attempted to roll it down, “I don’t think it’s going to go on”

“What?”

“You're too fucking big,” she whined, trying desperately to stretch the latex over my erect cock, “it’s not going to go on.”

Exasperated, she tossed the condom across the room and sat me down on the padded seating. Raising her skirt around her waist, she straddled me, her hand reached down to guide me, rubbing the head around her tight opening, before slowly lowering herself onto me.

It seems strange to think back now because I’ve seen that look so many times since, but she stopped dead as I entered her. A slightly dazed grimace on her face as she comprehended the task. I always wonder what goes through their minds at that moment. Is it exhilaration, panic or fear? She paused, holding me still until she got used to my size inside her, breathing out a sigh, as she carefully inched me in.

I don’t know if she knew that this was my first time, or that up to now my sexual experience had been mainly limited to wanking to porn on my phone, but I just let her take control.

Billy told me afterwards that he thought that I was killing her from the noises she made. I kept asking if she was okay, holding on to her waist as she rode me. Slowly at first, grinding her hips, letting me enjoy the warm cushion inside her, then picking up a pace as her body grew accustomed to me.

A low guttural growl came from deep inside her as her body began to shiver, her legs trembling. Tears of her fluid collected on my dick as she ground her body into mine.

“Inside me,” she growled, riding me like a possessed Frankie Dettori on the home straight of the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe. “Cum inside me,” she pleaded, but I wouldn’t. I wasn’t ready for this to stop. My cock was as hard as a rock, and I loved it. I loved watching this girl lose her mind in front of my eyes, begging me.

“Show me your tits,” I ordered, “show me your big fat tits.” Without hesitation, she reached under her blouse and behind her back, unclipping her bra. “Show me.” I could see the look in her eyes, that dreamy look of submissiveness as she almost tore the buttons of off her blouse, baring herself to me. Reaching out I held them in my hands, drawing them to my mouth.

“Do it Joey, cum in me.” Her voice was becoming desperate. I could taste the warm clammy sweat on her skin as I kissed her breasts. The breasts that I had for so long wanted her to reveal to me, that I had savoured as they bounced passed me in the street.

“Not until you do,” I teased.

“I have Joey. You’ve made me cum,” she purred, her tone now full of surrender. I bit down on her left nipple, drawing a satisfyingly intense moan as I drilled my cock forcefully inside her.

“Please?” Again, I aggressively drove myself into her, hearing the pleasing squelch from between her legs, then again, and again. Faster and faster. “You bastard. Cum. You. Me. For me. You... mmmmmm.” Her words were a jumbled mess and unintelligible as she began to sob.

Howling as her body spasmed in my arms, “Cummmmmming. I’m cummmmmmming.” Outside I could hear whispered laughter, and a torch beam danced around the stained walls and ceiling of the caravan, casting shadows as it searched.

Hands banged and rolled on the outer walls as the caravan rocked to the sound of Dexys Midnight Runners. ‘Come on Eileen,’ blasting from the house. The humour of the moment and the song choice wasn’t lost on me.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she scowled.

“What do you want me to do?” I knew that I was teasing her, and I also knew what her response was going to be.

“Don’t stop Joey. Please. Don’t stop. Fuck me. Fuuuuuck meeee.” She was like a rag doll in my arms, her eyes rolling manically, her open mouth emitting nonsensical gibberish. I could have done anything to her, and she would have let me. I had complete control over her body and mind, and it scared me and excited me in equal measure.

Finally, I let myself go, filling her with my release as she breathlessly collapsed into my arms.

It’s extraordinary how fast you can go from the throes of ecstasy to being snapped back into reality. Suddenly aware of our audience outside, Mandy began to collect her clothes, and I watched her hectic reverse striptease. The excitement outside had died down, and by the time she had zipped up her skirt and stepped outside, the only voice I could hear was her friend Janice.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Is it true?” I listened intently, wondering what she would say.

“It is,” she laughed, which I have to say wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. “Janice, it’s huge.”

“Bigger than Tony?”

“Oh, yes.” Her voice trailed off, replaced by music as they entered the house, leaving me to sit back in a kind of magical daze.

On the short walk home, my dad drunkenly put his arm around my shoulders.

“Good night?” he probed.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I did hear,” he said, followed by his distinctive, bellowing laugh.

“Pat!” my mum scolded.

“Well, it runs in the family, doesn’t it? Hereditary. You should know,” He teased, while grabbing her around the waist, and kissing her on the mouth.

“For Christ’s sake, Paddy,” she said, glancing at me, “we all know about you Potters,” she declared, but there was a giggle in her voice. A light-hearted tone that I now recognise to be a come on. She may be my mother, but I’ve come to understand that timbre.

That night I lay in bed in the small box room of our house on Victoria Street, listening as the headboard of my parents’ bed played a rhythmic tune that even Ginger Baker would have been proud of. Comparing my mother’s moans to those that I had heard earlier from Mandy. That all-consuming infatuation.

She was murmuring something that I couldn’t decipher, making it impossible to figure out whether she was asking for him to stop or to continue. I now understand that inflexion fully. Perhaps we are blessed, the men in our family.

I listened as my mother’s hoarse murmur turned to a capitulating whimper, and then a deranged chant.

“Fuck me. Fuck me,” over and over it continued, this demented mantra. I realised that she would have been fully aware that I was only in the room next door and could sense her acute embarrassment at not being unable to contain her emotions. “Fuccck me. Fuccck me,” words that I never thought I would hear her say but have now become so accustomed to hearing from others. That moaning, begging, pleading.

And I love it. I love the power that it has. Perhaps I am gifted or blessed to have inherited this family trait.

Little did I know then where it would lead.