Sweet and Sour Shades of Sandra

Sweet and Sour Shades of Sandra Sweet and Sour Shades of Sandra

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica



An erotic BDSM tale on the dark side.



An erotic BDSM tale on the dark side.


Submitted: October 28, 2011

A A A | A A A


Submitted: October 28, 2011



Friday night. Late first Friday night of a long weekend. The old cheese is away, yet the mice can't play. Fuck it, there's still a night in with the bottle. My bar and my bottle. Not that I indulge it much. Glenfiddich Single Malt on the rocks when I do. Wouldn't say I'm pissed, but the bottle's down to the plumb sentimental level and likewise the glass.

I top the glass up to four fingers and hold it up to the light, toasting my worn old mug in the mirror behind the bar where I'm sitting. Lovely golden colour this whisky has, and it's fifteen years old if it's a day. I take a long sip. The colour and the taste you pay for, but your memories are free. In my case, memories of another Friday long ago, a woman, and her hair. Sandra's hair ...

Forty years ago
Early Seventies, fag end of the Swinging Sixties matter o' fact. Last of the Summer, just before the Autumn walks all over it. Mid Friday afternoon, storm coming, sky as sullen as my mood. Walking out the last of my high school days, did well in my last exams, just turned eighteen, should be happy as a pig in shit but I'm not.

Want to see Sandra, my tutor. Known her a long time and we click like a copper's handcuffs, even if she's forty and a tiny bit, never dared ask. It's not a working day for her, but I know she's home, made sure she was. Half an hour's brisk walk, a kick this and kick that walk, a kick a cripple if I saw one kind of walk.

Nice little white stucco house, green roof, set in off the street, mellow old brick wall and wrought iron gate, well kept little garden, wonder where she finds the time to keep the roses and the rest with all the work she's got but somehow she does. Old house, new money, but not newly rich bad taste money; Sandra has too much class for that. If class were perfume, she'd quietly exude it, not reek of it like a whore's handbag.

For all her class, she's got an easy way with her. Easy on the eyes and easy to talk to, easier than my mother at the moment. That don't mean she's EASY though. Might be Sandra and Calvin between us but that can change in a millisecond. You don't come the old soldier with her, found that out a long time ago.

Sandra ushers me in, steps back so I can take my sneakers and socks off inside the door, just a thing we have, makes me relax, bare feet on white shag pile carpet, relaxed makes me work harder she says.

As always her vibes say, "Make yourself comfortable, take the edge off." Not quite a, "Make yourself at home, piss in any corner you'd like," kind of comfortable mind, but it'll do, as it always does, and I feel some of my storm dark mood slip away as I enter her study, first room in her house, where she teaches students.

Light straw coloured walls, this room, with a few tasteful rural prints and a handsome old wall clock which, on pain of a few verbal slaps, I've learned not to watch, not openly anyway. All fits together nicely, just as her figure does. She turns, left hand waving me to a seat.

I sit down this side of a four feet long three feet wide work table. I sit in a worn black leather swivel chair adjusted to my size. She'd known I was coming, had set it up beforehand. Never misses a trick, that one. Her chair is opposite mine, exactly the same but set a little higher, just so's you know who's boss. Her chair looks out through a bay window into the garden, mine looks inwards, another situation she likes to exploit where she can.

One hell of a teacher she is. Must be, to have got ME all the way up to and through my Senior! And my regular teachers? Well, as my old man, whom I've not seen since I was six, would have said, and for the most part accurately, "They wouldn't know if their arseholes were round, punched, bored, or countersunk!"

As usual her white platform soled sandals glide ghostlike over the carpet, supporting five eleven of hourglass figure. Azure blue pantsuit, matching her eyes, white blouse under her jacket. Firm breasts and legs all the way up to her arse. She looks me over as she walks. And she's single, never been married. Hard to believe, but single she is. Manicured nails, long but not overlong. No nail polish. She needs neither that nor makeup to look good.

Sits herself down, gives her down to tits length curly golden locks a toss so I can make out her perfect diamond face with its many laugh lines and announces, "Congratulations Calvin, you've made it into University, you know that?" Cut glass accent, soft or hard, depending. For now, it's soft.

I don't, but my mood is still so sour that all she gets by way of reply is a surly grunt. For a long moment, she says nothing, just lets her eyes look into mine. Not a stare, not a fake geeing up look, just empathy, or what I take for empathy.

"Thought you'd be happy, not just sit there looking like a reg'lar old Jack Nastyface. Want to talk about it?"

Again I don't, but the vibes are pushing my buttons, telling me nothing's secret with Sandra, so eventually, bit by bit I get it all out, my troubles at home, the arguments, the nagging I get, and last but not least, that my mother has grounded me for six months.

Same cut glass accent but a touch harder, "Can't say I'm surprised, with a year's worth of you coming home late, or not at all, not to mention not doing a damn thing you're asked, and as for some other things like break ins and shoplifting, well my lad, I'd keep up the running if I were you, might come in handy some day, eh?"

All of which is true, but on my startled gazelle gape, she adds, "Oh, your Mum and I go back a long way Calvin. Went to the same school, you know that, and we ladies do gossip y'know." She laughs, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You got off light. If you were mine, I'd have grounded you for a twelvemonth, and at least the half of that on bread and water. But you're not mine, and it's no skin off my nose. Is it?"

"Oh I just thought, what with you and Mum being old friends---"

She cuts me off, not rudely but firmly, "And what would you have me do? Ring Angie and beg her to forgive your many sins? Jesus and Mary, why don't I phone the Pope while I'm at it? What's the number again, VAT 69? No, I'm sorry, but you'll just have to go home and do your time, won't you?"

She waits a sickening ten seconds, "Unless I punish you rather than your mother. She agrees with that, provided you consent."

"What would you do?"

"Cane your arse. Properly. Don't look so surprised. I went to a convent school, and was a teacher for a few years myself before I became a tutor. I've neither forgotten what a caning feels like, nor how to administer one. And I've got a spare room that's perfect for it."

I must look like someone's hit the back of my head with a rubber mallet, so she continues, "Don't worry, I'll give you some time to think about it, but before you do, I want you to know it'll be no easy way out. It'll hurt like hell, and it's not as if I'll give you some set number of strokes and that's it. You'll get as many as I think you need, enough to break you in fact, and I shall take care to make good practice upon you."

This last, she explains, was a military euphemism for shooting the stuffing out of something. Or someone, she adds in malicious good humour. She lets me go to the bathroom, on my right, through a doorway then hard right, for a nervous pee, and when I return to my chair she says, offhandedly, "I'll give you fifteen minutes. I'm going to phone your mother for a bit of old girl's gasbag anyway, and I've the feeling you'll want to be alone."

She swiftly stands up, turns about, and walks straight out through a door in the wall away from the work table, heading for what I know is her living room and kitchen area. Thanks very much, Lady lay-all-the-cards-out-on-the-table Sandra.

I do want to be alone, no error, not that being alone makes things any easier. I'm in a cleft stick and I know it. On the one hand if I simply go home, there'll be yet another blazing row followed by sweet sufferin' Christ knows how much smouldering nagging afterward; whilst on the other hand I myself have some idea what a caning feels like, having collected a few both ways over my years at school, albeit half-hearted compared to what Sandra might dish out, and it's that unknown that has me sweating. What makes it worse is she's never the once hit me in all the years she's tutored me, she's always used her eyes, her voice, and her vibes. Oh shit oh dear, oh dear oh SHIT!

Ah bugger it! I can't take any more rows, much less any more nagging, either one's worse'n toothache. Of the devil I know and the devil I don't, it'll just have to be the one I don't. I don't care a squirt o' rat's piss if she breaks me. She'll have the job ahead of her and that's a fact; running teaches you a thing or two about pain. Or so I think.

Half three on the dot she re-appears and sits down on her side of the table. Punctual as a tax collector. "Your mother's easy either way, I just checked. Well, what's it to be, run home to Mummy or my way?" The words come over pointed yet blunt-edged, the way the best bayonets are, just right for making the worst stab wounds.

"Your way."

"Somehow thought it might be." Vibes neutral. But the next bit surprises me. "Just go sit in the Hug Chair for a while." Vibes soothing warm. The Hug Chair being what she calls a tan two seater lounge placed a pace in front of the far wall left of the door to the living room, with the wall clock to the right of the door. It's far and away the most comfy seat in here, and it's not often I or anyone else gets to sit on it. I walk over and sit on its right as I face it, as I am expected to. With Sandra everything has to be just so. Just the way she is.

Before I know it she's standing behind me, hands soft on my shoulders, leaning forward so her hair falls either side of my head. Her hands expertly massage my trapezoids as she says softly, vibes humming warm, "Relax, lean forward, hands on knees, look out into the garden." Roses blood red, lawn emerald green in the storm gray light. "C'mon, sync your breathing with the massage, you know the drill."

Indeed I do, it's an old trick of hers for rewarding me. Not that I get it very often; I can count on my fingers the number of times she's done it all the time she's tutored me, but somehow she makes each time feel better than the last. She outdoes herself today, showing such skill as a masseuse I'd swear she could make the most shagged out nag gallop out of a knacker's yard. What the fuck?

"I'm doing this for three reasons Calvin. Firstly, so you'll see there's nothing personal in what's going to happen. It's not that you're bad, it's that you're a young man going through a silly stage, a bloody silly stage. Your Mum does the best she can, but she's not got quite enough steel in her to put a curb bit on you for a while. Oh, and you never heard me say that about your mother, right? Secondly because I respect your decision, it's a very brave one."

She's sitting beside me on my right before I get the third, along with a breathtaking hug. I catch her perfume. Just a discreet hint of Chanel Number 5, or Yves St Laurent. Never did learn all the different ones. As my face presses chastely into her right shoulder, I feel her hands rubbing in slow circles all over my back as she comes out with it.

"And lastly because, whereas you've always known me as nice friendly helpful caring tutor Sandra, you're about to see another side of me. The icy cold, heartless, uncaring bitch side of me, so enjoy the hug while it lasts!"

It doesn't last long. It ends in an almighty stinging smack on my backside, along with a curt, "Get up!"

I get up. "Follow me!" said the same way as I've read the hangman used to say it, and damn me if it don't feel the same. Frightening.

Follow her as the long threatening storm breaks. Past the work table and the entrance, past the bathroom I used earlier, and to the end of a short passageway. Short walk following her marching pace, a short walk I'd normally enjoy allowing my eyes to drink in the ups and downs of her Rock of Ages beam that I scarcely notice now, such is my anxiety.

The well known refrain rings mockingly inside my skull for a split second before she turns left to open a door. "Rock of Ages, CLEFT for me, let me hide myself in thee!" Aye me, so this is what you get for taking the mickey out of hymns, eh?

Door opens. Inwards, as she stands on the right of it. "Get inside!" In a tone usually reserved for misbehaving dogs. No more shag carpet, wood parquet floor. "Stop there!"

Door closes, light comes on. Just enough time to see it's a medium sized room, pastel shade walls, double bed with matching coverlet left of centre back wall, hard up against that wall, three seater sofa hard up against the end of the bed. Door to the right of the bed, between it and a huge built in closet, right wall. Sofa's back four inches higher than the bed. No windows.

She moves so she faces me. Vibes low now, so low it's freezing in here, Summer or no Summer. And that's when real fear starts. Her hands grip my shoulders. Not the masseuse's fingers I know. More like some undead creature's talons. And the voice, somehow so different from any I've ever heard her use.

"Look into my eyes and listen! From now until this is over, you will do exactly what I tell you when I tell you.You will not speak to me unless I put a question to you. And you will address me as Miss Van Lewin. Do you understand?"

The devil looks out of her eyes, not the hot and wild devil beloved of cartoonists, the one you only laugh at, but Dante's frozen devil, the one that lives in the lowest circle of hell. The one that REALLY scares you because it doesn't even have to TRY to scare you.

"Yes Miss Van Lewin".

"Strip. Take all your clothes off, leave them on the floor. Except for your underpants. NOW!"

She stands there while I do it. Never moves, not a fraction of an inch. Just stands there looking me over like she's working out what sum to bid at a slave market, all the while emitting vibes of a kind that keep a constant flow of ice water pouring over me. Transformation complete, every word in it etched into my mind.


"Walk over to the sofa. Kneel in the middle of the sofa, facing the bed. Put your hands either side of you palms down on the back of the sofa and lean forward slightly."

She slinks up behind me. I feel her hands either side of my hips. Her thumbs hook into the waist band of my black Y fronts and she jerks them down to my knees. I turn my head. Her right hand strikes like a snake, twists my right ear. Painfully.

"Face front! Spread your legs out, as far as your Y fronts will allow. And cut out your bloody bashful virgin act, it doesn't impress me!" This when I fidget as her hands relentlessly part and squeeze my buttocks, impassively gauging fat score and muscle tone.

She walks off, goes over to the closet, takes off her jacket so as to have the better use of her arms, hangs her jacket up, bustles around getting some things together.

She comes back, three pillows tucked between her left arm and side and a straight three feet long three eighths of an inch thick rattan cane in her right hand. Pauses at the front of the bed, lays down the cane, casually flicks one pillow out so it lands middle of the bed, picks up the cane again, moves behind me with it and the remainder of the pillows. I daren't move. Not that my obedience gets a scintilla of sympathy out of her.

Lays the cane down beside me on the sofa to my right, then moves behind me, doing everything at a carefully measured pace, to build up the tension, no doubt. She'd make a bloody good actress come to think, I'd pay good money to see her on the stage. Except this isn't an act. Can't think what it is, and that's scary too.

Sets up the two pillows in front of me so they're hard up between my lower belly/groin and the back of the sofa. My crown jewels now protected, with some assistance from me on her carefully worded commands, she makes one final inspection, the hangman's last look you might say. She steps back, picks up the cane with her right hand, then moves so she's behind me and to my left.

"Lean all the way forward, put your face in the other pillow and hold onto either side of it. Tightly." All this between experimental swishes of the cane. Leaving me, as intended, vulnerable, exposed, waiting in silence.

"Perfect! I do like to do any job proper Christian RIGHT, first time, and with this one that's all the more important, because this is a ritual, Calvin, a ritual with an opening, a body, and a conclusion."

Oh thanks, so that's what it is, I'd never have guessed that.

"The opening is all about turning you into an object. That's all you are to me now, see, just an object for me to hit. One last thing. Don't even think about pleading for me to stop, or whining to me about how much it hurts. You do either one and you'll soon find you've mistaken me for someone who could give a fuck."

That's the first time I've ever heard her swear, but it's not the use of the word that shocks me, its the way she uses it.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes Miss Van Lewin."

"Good, then on to the scientific application of PAIN."

On a scale of one to ten, no caning I've ever had so far has exceeded six, and as a runner I've learned to ride them out, just taking care not to laugh, but this one STARTS at seven!

SWISH CRACK!!!!! followed by a thump and thousands of angry wasps stinging my arse an instant later, then a deep BURN such as I've never felt in my life. She uses sets of three, with precise pauses in between and a longer pause between sets.

It's all the more agonizing because she is a master at reading body language and using that info to set just the right tempo she wants. So that just as the burn from the last one is fading ever so slightly, another one crashes in, every one delivered in a good and workmanlike fashion. There's hardly a carpenter I've ever seen who could have nailed off a floor by hand as methodically.

Each is almost a pistol shot loud, and a million flash bulbs go off inside my head, every time. I can't yell even if I want to, because it's all I can do to keep breathing. The blows knock the breath out of me. This is no middle distance run, this is a marathon.

Then from somewhere I hear someone moaning, in between tears. Just as I realize that someone's ME, an almost disembodied voice says firmly, "Six more and that's it". The cane balances on my quivering backside. "Keep STILL! These will really hurt!"


Hurt? Jesus fornicatin' CHRIST they hurt! They slam home in a blur, a red ROAR of pain that leaves me gasping, almost uncertain where I am, nothing but a crying, moaning, broken wreck. Vaguely I can make out footsteps and the closet door opening again. It shuts. More footsteps.

Then she's sitting on the bed, softly stroking my hair and my neck. "It's over, it's over, it's OVER!"

"Arghh! You sadistic bitch!"

She isn't the least put out by the unusual salutation. She simply pulls the pillow out from under my face, pushes it to my left, gently puts her hands under my chin and lifts my head up so I can see her eyes again. Her face crinkles with amusement, and the vibes are warm again. She mulls my words over.

"Bitch? H'mm, fair enough. But did I not warn you I'd turn into a bitch? And have you ever known me waste my breath on idle threats? Sadistic? Noooo. I TOLD you it would hurt, I just didn't say how much. And how much, that's a wee bit subjective, isn't it? It's you inside that skin of yours, not I. Besides which, you've done your level best to earn this over the last year, and now you've got it, I don't see where you have any cause for complaint. Next time, be more careful what you wish for, eh?"

'Yes Miss Van Lewin" I can only just get that out between choked back groans.

More hair and neck stroking. "Sandra."

"Is it really over?"

"Yes, unless you'd like me to bring the cane back so you can kiss the bloody thing!"

"UGH! Why would I want to do that?"

"Oh, if I were a religious person, a reg'lar church crawlin' mongrel that is, I'd MAKE you kiss it. That's biblical, I'd have you know! Then I'd make you get dressed and walk home, in the pissing down rain and all."

I've been so caught up I've not even realized it is now raining. Heavily.

She lifts up my head again, lets the azure blue eyes look into mine, makes the vibes caress me.

"Well, aren't you lucky I'm not religious? Nor I ain't sadistic neither." Despite myself I can't help but laugh. Weakly.

"That's better." She walks behind me, takes the pillows out from under me then effortlessly takes my Y fronts all the way off, slowly easing my knees together again. I feel her hands run ever so lightly run over my newly corrugated arse.

"I'd call that a bloody good group, scarce a flyer in thirty shots!" As though she was looking over a target after winning a sudden death shoot-off in a rifle match. Did I really take thirty?

"Oh yes, twenty four to get you broken to where I wanted you, and six more to drive the point home, but then you always was a strong willed little bastard. Now get up and lie fully face down on the bed, while I get something to set this to rights."

Takes an effort to do what I'm asked but I do it despite saw edged stabs of fiery pain shooting from my battered behind. "Get on with it Sookrums, and stop feeling sorry for yourself! Like another thirty? I'm sure the Tigress wouldn't mind!" Meaning her cane. Yet the words are delivered with encouragement wrapped in in a kind of comradely amusement. That, along with a peal of laughter and a shake of her golden locks as she puts the pillows back in the closet, makes me feel as if she's levitated me onto the bed. She leaves by the door to the right of the bed, giving me a tear blurred glimpse of her bedroom before the door shuts.

The something turns out to be an ointment she's made herself, a blend of cold cream and home grown herbs that's been kept cold. It works well, takes the burn right out. She massages it in vigourously, ignoring my protests and tears except to observe once, jokingly, that I've got a fine cut of rump she's sure she could sell at some vile price per pound. At least I hope she's joking, never quite know with Sandra.

It's a long and expert butt massage, muscle manipulation such as would arouse a Carolingian Era corpse. It also arouses a certain part of me which Sandra pointedly ignores, simply telling me to get dressed when she's finished the massage, adding, "Don't fret about going home, you can stay here tonight, and I can run you home in the morning, your Mum's okay with that. Be better if you did; it's not that she doesn't love you any more, it's just she don't LIKE you very much right now. Besides which, we can close the ritual," she adds mysteriously.

She sits on the sofa at the end of the bed while I get dressed, chuckling like a drain every time I wince. "You'll get used to that, it'll only last a fortnight. Or two. Good reminder I should think. Now, go and wash your face, then let's go into the living room." We go back the long way round, no one save herself goes into her bedroom. Ever.

Once in the living room, she installs me in another long lounge after arranging some cushions carefully for me to sit on. Bookshelves line the walls, some of the books in them being on quite weird and wonderful subjects. Witchcraft and ritual magic being not the least of these, and there are several Herbals, a couple of which look to be very old.

Sandra's off to the kitchen, left rear of the living room while I desultorily watch the TV in the opposite corner which she's turned on in passing. Not that there's much on telly and I'm getting a little bored when she comes back with a big glass of some light gold liquid which she coaxes me to drink after shutting off the idiot box. Silver service Sandra, who'd ever have thought it?

It's still and sweet with just a tiny hint of bitterness I can't identify. She ensures I drink every drop of it, telling me it's hard to make, but it's great for aches and pains. That, it certainly is. Suddenly I break out in a fit of giggles as it kicks in. "That's a side effect of this little brew," I hear her saying. "Enjoy it, that's all of it you're getting!" She sets the glass down carefully on a small table left of the sofa, then sits down beside me, undoing just enough of her blouse to expose her cleavage as she does.

The hug this time is fantastic, exquisite. She very gently turns my head away from her shoulder, pushes my face down into her mammary vale, then uses her hands to circle my back as she's done earlier on, all the while crooning something falling between a lullaby and a chant. I don't understand a syllable of it, indeed I get the feeling I'm not meant to, but that doesn't matter, the blissful pain free feeling is such I want it to go on forever. It's not sexual, even given where my face is, it's being where preachers mean when they drivel on about heaven. Except that none of their prattling pious piddle comes close to describing this.

Sandra gently breaks off the hug, but as my face comes clear of her, flashes me an earthy, laughing look after kissing my eyes and forehead. "Enjoy the view? You've wanted to do that for years, haven't you, you randy little beast? Think I didn't know?" I blush, but I notice she doesn't button up her blouse again, just lets her right hand rest ever so lightly on and wander up and down my thighs.

"Seriously, that closes the ritual. However, since you're staying the night, how about some dinner and then, how about a very practical lesson on friendly fornication?"

She senses what I'm thinking, knows I'm confused. First she lacerates my arse and now she wants me in a biblical sense? Her hands stroke my face as she speaks, making warm vibes eye contact, dropping her voice soothingly as though explaining to a scared child.

"The caning was a favour I did for your mother Calvin, a bit of business if you will. Business having been concluded, I am proposing a little pleasure. What do you say?"

I blush and squirm while she patiently awaits an answer. Eventually, despite my confusion, I manage to stammer out, "Is the Pope a Catholic?"

"Oh I'm sure he thinks he is. But whether he is or no, I'll take that for a 'yes'." To my still stunned mullet look, she explains, reverting to logical lecturer Sandra for a moment, Sandra the ever practical, "Firstly, you've wanted to fuck me since ever you first got barred up, and don't you dare deny it; secondly, now you've come of age, I'm not averse to the idea; thirdly I happen to be between lovers at the moment; fourthly, although I own a collection of dildos such as was never seen in Ancient Babylon, I still like fresh meat when I can get it, bashful virgin meat especially; and fifthly, it'll save me a bit of money buying you a birthday present!"

I'll need dinner, I'm so bloody hungry now I'd eat a plague carrying dead rat, fur and all. All the same I twitch in sheer slavering anticipation.

"Patience, patience, as the old spinster said when she tried it out on herself with an overripe banana!" Sandra laughs. "Oh here!" She stands up, reaches into some secret space in the bookshelf above the TV and tosses me a magazine of such pornographic boldness it keeps me enthralled all the while she's attending to dinner, until I hear, "Put that bloody stickbook away, come here, sit down, and pin your ears back."

When I'm sitting at her kitchen table, a bowl of a most delicious casserole in front of me, she leans over from her side, "Just get one thing straight, just because we shall soon be swapping spit and a few other bodily fluids, DOES NOT US LOVERS MAKE, get me? The last thing I want is you hanging around me like a lovesick puppy, OK?"

"Sure." Serious wisdom bit over.

"Good, now eat. That brew also induces appetite".

What else does the flamin' stuff do, I wonder. Silly question.

Answered when we go back into the spare room. We start off sitting on the turned back bed, kissing. Long, slow, exploring kisses. Then piece by piece, we remove our clothes. Each time one piece comes off, she pauses to explain all the bits and bobs as she puts it.

When my Tee shirt comes off, she almost worships my pecs and washboard abs, licking, kissing and nibbling every front bit while her hands and fingers wander all over my back. "Leave your jeans on for now."

She shows me how to take off her bra as she gives me another full kiss, moves on to show just how to kiss and fondle her tits, "Always keep an eye on the nipples, when a woman's nipples go hard, that's a sign you're doing it right." The way hers are, she'll have one or other of my eyes out if she's not careful.

She stands up, slowly sliding her pants down, making me wait for every inch. Steps out of them and eases her bikinis down, revealing that she's shaved herself like a French tart, laughing lustily at my goggle eyes, allowing my hands to wander up and down and in between her engine turned legs. As my hands clasp her firm athlete's behind and I make some clumsy attempts at kissing and licking her vaginal lips, I feel her hands caress and tousle my hair.

"No no no, let me show you a much better way."

Then she's lying on the bed, knees drawn up, her bottom resting on a pillow, my head between her legs, with her explaining just where she wants my tongue and my lips, how to keep The Little Man in the Boat happy and all that gubbins. I know I've got that right when her crotch slams wetly into my face and she sinks back with a long drawn out contented sigh.

"Aye-eee, you just gave me an orgasm. I don't know whether that's beginner's luck or what, so stand up so I can take your jeans and undies off. Slowly."

Which she does, slowly-so-I-can-see-what-I'm-getting Sandra. Undoes my belt, undoes my waistband, unzips me with her teeth. Slides my jeans down leisurely while her fingernails send thrilling frissons down the outside and front of my thighs, as she kisses and licks their insides. All the way down. Comes back to my briefs, uses her teeth and hands to slide them down too, Jesus creepin' Christ slow, pausing every now and then to explain this or that. Sexy light years ahead of Basic Biology!

Makes me turn around as I discard jeans and undies. "Very nice stripes the Tigress leaves, doesn't she?" Nuzzles each one. "Nice tight runner's arse!" Giggles girlishly. "Closest I've ever seen to Michelangelo's David!" Hands ever so softly cupping it, fingers tenderly tracing a particularly vicious welt. "Bet you felt THAT!" Before I can reply, "Turn around now."

Controls my turn, as the always and everywhere in control Sandra she is. Then I'm inside her mouth as she brings me to the brink, backs off to let me subside, then brings me to the brink again. Stops me with expert, squeezing fingers.

After this eminently satisfying Introduction to Fellatio she smacks and squeezes both my arse cheeks, making me yelp.

She grins, "You'll find your poor old aching arse will really make your bells ring later on. And mine. Now, I think we've covered Foreplay, so that only leaves Mounting, Penetration, Thrusting, and Climax, doesn't it?"

Should be an orderly progression but isn't, save only that we start with Mounting as seriously-out-of-control Sandra and I go mountain climbing. Over hill and down dale in an absolute roller-coaster rattle-battle of a root ending in cataclysmic climax. Does it make our bells ring? Can't speak for her, but they bloody near strike me deaf dumb and dead! Each of the last thrusts helps spell out another side of Sandra, now blazing brilliant blue out of her eyes:


Those words too are etched forever in my mind.

That was the last time I ever saw the inside of Sandra's house, let alone her bed. As promised, she drove me back to my Mum's house early in the morning, having fed me very well first. Breakfast I mean, for, as she said, I wasn't entitled to a bloody eyeopener, was I? What'd I think I was, married or something? We got out of the car, stood facing each other on the footpath. Nice clean washed out blue jeans sky after storm day.

She slipped a beautiful, solid silver amulet into my left front jeans pocket. "It brings luck in life--- and with the ladies," she said with a lewd wink, giving me a quick kiss on the forehead and spinning me around. Her left hand pointed to the house, her right hand gave my bottom a playful spank, and she said, "G'wan now, git!" And I got. Probably just as well I stayed got too, would've have taken a fearfully fit football team and the coach to keep it up to her.

I saw her again on odd occasions, (never saw TO her again though) until she grew old and died (disgracefully too, I'll warrant), but never by so much as a flutter of her eyelashes did she indicate any of this had ever happened. If the truth be known I'd not believe any of it happened either, if it weren't for the tiger's head talisman I'm now turning over in my left hand as my right throws the last of the whisky down my throat.

And if it weren't for the other sardonically grinning golden haired pretty face in the mirror alongside my now as-youthful-as-it-was-then dial. Sure ain't my missus and I'd better hope it's just the whisky ...

© Copyright 2018 Joe Roberts. All rights reserved.

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