Green hedges flashed past the passenger window, occasional gaps and gates giving Ben glimpses of the fields of Warwickshire, the distant trees rendered grey by the March rain. Really not much to keep his attention from Smita’s wedding ring, glinting on her light brown finger below a deep red, painted nail whenever she turned the steering wheel.

I really shouldn’t be doing this.

He tried to steal a glance at her unseen, but she caught him instantly, her eyes crinkling into lines left by five decades of giving the same smile, and he quickly looked away — he didn’t want her to think he was having second thoughts.

“Relax, Ben,” she said and placed that same hand that kept pulling his gaze on his jeans, making his skin look so pasty in comparison. He hoped she didn’t hear his intake of breath. “Patrick won’t be back from his conference until tomorrow, so we have all day and night to have fun.”

Her brown eyes sparkled at him before she brought her hand back to the steering wheel. He swallowed and nodded.

Don’t feel weird! Just because she’s as old as your mum doesn’t mean you’ve gone oedipal.

“Tell me, Ben, who’s your favourite author?”

“Terry Pratchett.” Blood rushed to his cheeks as he realised too late he should have lied and said something more sophisticated to a professor of English Literature, but the question had come out of nowhere.

She smirked at him. “I should have guessed. No need to be embarrassed; I enjoy his books too. He was a very entertaining author. I always felt sorry for the character ‘Rincewind’.”

“Rincewind? The cowardly wizard?”

“Yes. Always running away from adventure instead of enjoying the one he’s having at the time. Don’t be a Rincewind and run from what scares you, Ben. You might find things out about yourself that you never knew. Trust me.”

“Right, er, Smita.” It still seemed odd, calling her by first name rather than Professor Wilkins. “I won’t. Run, I mean.”

The whole situation was surreal. Three years of having her as his course tutor and experiencing nothing but friendly professionalism. Three years of hiding his lust, even from himself. Three years of confusion at finding a woman the same age as his own mother invading his wet dreams. Then one drunken confession at the Student Guild bar somehow led to clumsy fumbling in a dark corridor, and a week later he was accepting an invitation to her home, with no doubt as to what she had planned.

Ben’s heart beat faster as they passed the sign announcing the name of a village, the first part obscured by a low hanging tree branch so that only ending, “bourne”, was visible. Fuck, I don’t even know where I’m going. I should ask. But he didn’t. Part of him wanted to let go completely and be totally lost.

All moisture evaporated from his mouth when they turned into the local version of the same new housing estate found in every village in England — another reminder of adolescence, this time of visiting his friends’ houses. Friends with mothers he’d tried desperately not to ogle. Identical cream detached houses, perfect for the middle-class to have their home in the country without the inconvenience of an old house and the quirks of terrible insulation that brought. Comfortable, sure, but devoid of all character.

Good job that architectural critique happened in my head; we’ve just pulled into the drive of one. He stared at the garage door, his mind going blank. Am I really doing this?

“We’re here,” Smita said, popping the safety belt out and opening her door. She ducked back in, strands of black hair that had escaped her loose bun framing her face, large eyes capturing his before they could slide down her proffered cleavage. “Coming?”

Gnawing on his lip, he wordlessly got out, almost falling when his legs tangled themselves in the straps of his backpack. Nervously, he scanned the surrounding windows for the twitching curtains he associated with these dens of judgemental hypocrisy but saw nothing. He shivered in the drizzle, regretting his decision to attempt at dressing up in a semi-smart shirt instead of his usual comfortable, invisibilising black hoody and t-shirt.

It probably looks ridiculous with jeans and Cons, anyway. Oh well, it’s the thought that counts.

Smita had certainly made an effort, though, between hurried train station pick-up in the rain and driving, it was only now that he had the time to admire the tight navy blue dress hugging her figure. Not an outrageously slim figure attempting to conceal her years, but a gorgeously curvy one Ben struggled to avoid staring at every tutorial, although the indentations made by her underwear in her flesh were not usually quite so noticeable.

So hot for a lady in her early fifties, he began thinking for the thousandth time and then caught himself. I should stop reminding myself of her age, he told himself, but it was hard. Fifty really shouldn’t count as old, but to a twenty-one-year-old, that was how it felt.

She turned the key in the loan and entered, switching on the light to transform the doorway into an inviting golden gateway in the dreary early spring afternoon. He exhaled and entered. The door clicked shut, and she turned to him.

Her fingers brushed his as she took his bag and dropped it under the coat rack. His safety net gone, he became hyper-aware of himself — the awkward way his arms hung at his sides, the millimetre gap between his dry lips, his bad posture. His gaze kept being drawn to the signs of their age difference, like the lines on her face or the faint wrinkles in her cleavage, so close and on display with the low cut of her dress.

With a predatory glint in her eye, she advanced, her two-inch heels giving her a slight height advantage over him. She paused, giving him one last chance to back out.

“I’ve been waiting all semester for this,” she told him.

“M-me too,” he answered. “Longer, actually.”

He could smell a perfume, but what do twenty-one-year-old men know about the perfume choices of women thirty years their senior? There was also the bite of tobacco from the cigarette she’d been smoking while she waited for him at the station and the faint taste of it in the air that you get in a smoker’s house. Another step, and their lips connected. Hers were soft, with a light down of fine hairs. He let go and melted into her. Lessons from his handful of exes flew out the window, forgotten, but she was patient, guiding his tongue with hers when it flicked between her teeth.

She tasted of cigarettes and mints.

Pushing him back against the door he had just entered through, she pressed her body against his. He tried and failed to act more experienced than he was, moving his hands over her dress hesitantly, then, as he got bolder, descending down her back, pausing and then daring to grab her arse. Breaking from the kiss, he moved his mouth down her neck as he had seen in movies and pawed somewhat clumsily at her breasts, the nipple hardening against his palm through her clothes.

Her hand slid confidently from his waist to the bulge straining at his jeans, squeezing it. In a smooth, elegant movement, she sank to her knees, her other hand sliding from his neck over his shirt to his fly. With practised fingers, she undid the buttons and freed him from the confines of his boxers, stroking the underside gently and smiling as it jerked upwards from her touch.

“Mmmm, gorgeous, Ben,” she said. She gave it a playful kiss and then ran her tongue down to his balls and back again. “I love the taste of young cock.”

She gave some more teasing licks, then opened her mouth and took him in. Though she kept her movements light, he worried he might cum right then, watching his dick disappear between her lips. Trying to delay his climax, he looked away, concentrating on the bland white and cream of the suburban home. A table by the stairs with a picture of her with a man he recognised from photos in her office as Patrick, her husband, caught his eye. Holiday snaps featuring his cheerful, bespectacled face and rather portly, frequently sunburnt semi-naked body covered the opposite wall.

No wonder she wants a younger, slimmer model like me.

Moments later, he spotted a photo of their wedding in Warwick — he remembered her telling him that just because she was born in Mumbai didn’t mean she got married there — showing him with less belly and more hair on his head. Next to it was a more recent one of the couple standing under a banner congratulating them on their silver anniversary, which gave him a jolt of guilt.

Shit! Am I really willing to risk wrecking the poor man’s marriage for a fuck?

Smita picked that moment to take a break and look up at him, smiling. Her wedding ring flashed in the light as she stroked her hand up and down his shaft, and a shiver of wrongness that felt so right ran down his spine.

Fuck! I think I am!

In a last-ditch effort to persuade himself to call it off, he picked details to concentrate on that he expected to find off-putting — the few streaks of white in her hair, the tiny crinkles around her painted lips, the imperfections of age visible on her skin — but it didn’t work.

She really is hot!

He gasped as she gave a swirling lick around him as if to punctuate this thought. The guilt that should be making him soft instead heightened his senses. Every nuance of her tongue, every gulp when his cockhead hit the back of her throat, and even the smell of the rain through the stale tobacco, all felt magnified, searing themselves onto his memory.

Decades of experience told Smita the exact moment to stop. Popping him out of her mouth and licking along his length, she finished with another peck on the tip and stood up.

“Good boy,” she purred. She kissed him deeply again, a little salt from his precum evident on her tongue and varnished nails dragging over his shaft. “Let’s go upstairs. I want you to fuck me in the bed I share with my husband.”

She turned, fist wrapping around his dick while he processed those words, and dragged him towards the carpeted stairs.

Ben felt lightheaded as they climbed, muffled footfalls barely audible over the pounding in his ears. All hesitation was overridden by the desire she sparked in him, though — not just the periodic squeeze around his hard-on, but the way her arse swayed in that dress, the memory of her tits in his palms, even the gentle curve of her nose in profile when she glanced back over her shoulder at him.

An open room faced the stairs, a green duvet over a tidy double bed visible through the open doorway. Ben started towards it, but a tug on his dick stopped him.

“Master bedroom is this way.”

He bit his lip but was being literally lead by his penis, so uttered no protest as they continued down the corridor to their destination.

Smita left the door open but released him once they reached the bed to turn on the light, compensating for the dull illumination of the March sky coming through the window. Thinking of when he would play alone at home, Ben instinctively looked to the window to see if neighbours would be able to see in, but the house faced down a cul-de-sac. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed by the lack of a potential audience.

“Come here,” Smita ordered.

He obeyed meekly, feeling ridiculous with his semi-hard dick dangling out. He stood before her, trying not to stare at yet another photo of her and her life partner on the bedside table.

“Undress for me,” she said.

“O-Okay.” Ben fumbled with his buttons, suddenly in a hurry to be naked in front of this older woman — surely that would be less humiliating than his poor wardrobe choices and dangling dick!

“No rush, Ben,” she said kindly, seeing how flustered he was.

He forced himself to calm down and managed to remove his shirt without falling over. Thank fuck I keep my shoes loose, he thought when his Cons came off easily.

A moment later, he was nude, self-conscious, but a little excited. Smita stepped closer and ran her finger down his athletic chest, through the small patch of hair to his belly button and over what a friend had once called his “monkey ladder”, pausing to watch his reaction. In a single movement, she gripped his cock and balls and pulled him into a deep kiss.

Once the surprise wore off, Ben put his arms around her, gaining in confidence enough to cup her breasts and pull her to him, crushing his precum-leaking prick into her dress. Getting bolder, he located the zip at the back and pulled it down. Lips remaining locked together, she assisted his valiant efforts at removing it until it lay crumpled at her feet and undid the clasp of her bra for him so it could join her dress.

The floodgates of three years suppressed passion opened when Smita pulled him down on top of her on the bed. He ceased holding back in that kiss, and he got as good as he gave, their teeth clashing in their attempts to push their tongues further into each other’s throats.

With a gasp, he broke free, but not to escape. Instead, he kissed his way down to her nipples, his cock sliding off silk panties as he latched his lips around one large dark areola and wondered at the way her flesh filled his palm. She indulged him, tolerating his eager but clumsy sucking and squeezing of her tits, but encouraged him with hands on his curly brown hair to move further down. His kisses moved over the soft skin of her tummy until he knelt with his arse in the air towards the door and his nose pressed to her silk covered mound, inhaling her scent.

He tucked his fingers into her knickers and pulled, soft young fingertips raking over her smooth legs. Unceremoniously discarding the damp lingerie, Ben rested on his elbows, drinking in the sight of her brown folds nestled amongst the tangle of black curls, a hint of the pink prize glistening in the middle. Too many vaginas in the porn he jerked off to had been waxed or shaved into hairless blandness, so a gloriously thick bush temporarily stunned him. Before the pause could be interpreted as dislike, he splayed his fingers on her inner thighs and began kissing the little dimples of cellulite, spiralling inwards in an attempt to hide his inexperience in the art of cunnilingus.

Smita was a patient teacher and directed his scattergun of licks to where she wanted them. For his part, he was revelling in the smell, taste and feel of her under his tongue and against his cheeks. Saliva had returned to his mouth with a vengeance with such a delectable dish before it, and drool mixed with pussy juice dribbled down his chin. His cock twitched with every exaggerated moan of encouragement she gave, a clear strand of precum joining it to the sheets.

“Good boy, Ben,” she told him, treating him like a dog, “but I didn’t invite you home just for your tongue.”

Taking the hint but nervous about his performance after such a long build-up, he crawled his way back up her body. He made a show of kissing it, hoping that emphasising the evidence of skin that had been in existence twice as long as he’d been alive would pull him back from feeling he might cum from the slightest touch, but it had the opposite effect. Instead, he started silently counting backwards from a hundred, cursing his young libido that had recovered so fast from his pre-departure wank — a release that had almost driven him to cancel this meeting in the post-orgasmic come down.

He gave a little moan when Smita’s fingers closed on his cockhead and rubbed it along her slit, slick with his saliva and her arousal. She smiled at him encouragingly, and he sank into her. Surrounded by the heat he had longed for, he buried his face in the pillow beside her and groaned while she gently patted his head and neck and then moved her hands down to grip his buttocks.

“You feel so fucking good, Smita,” he told her once he had his breath back. He groaned as her vagina clenched, and she chuckled, but he managed to hold back.

“You feel pretty good yourself, Ben,” she said. “Now, fuck me. Fuck me hard!”

Ben took another breath and looked into her eyes, then nodded. Pushing himself up and shifting his knees to brace himself, he withdrew.

Maybe I should have pretended to be a virgin — it would have been less embarrassing, he thought as he overshot and flopped out.

She guided him back, and he entered again, harder, and was rewarded with an “ooh!” from his lover. He pulled out, not so far, and thrust again, his balls slapping against her flesh. Starting to feel more confident, he got into a rhythm, doing his best to ignore the wet slurping sounds coming from their meeting. The focus of his eyes drifted as he tried counting again, this time in Spanish, to push back that rising pressure.

Smita’s cries changed, her face flushing, and she bit her bottom lip. She wrapped her legs around his back, thrusting up to meet him for each squelchy entry.

“FUCK! Harder!” she yelled, so loud he was sure neighbours would hear and tell her husband. And yet, he obeyed, slamming down harder, making the bed bang into the wall. The sound amused him enough to keep the orgasm at bay for just a little longer.

Both her hands grabbing his buttocks and a yell of “Yesss!” spurred him on to the final sprint, slap, slap, slapping into her well-used cunt with his young cock. He knew he was there and yelled out too, slamming into her one final time before erupting.

SMACK!

The shock jerked Ben forward mid-ejaculation, driving him even deeper.

SMACK!

Another open-handed slap landed on the other buttock before the red-hot sting of the first had fully registered through the mind-fog of climax, releasing a new flood of endorphins.

SMACK! SMACK!

More spanks hit their target, his body shuddering and his cries muffled by Smita holding his face to the pillow. As the ecstasy of cumming faded, a large, masculine hand grabbed his hair, and realisation dawned.

The husband was home.