Caroline's secret - Sex Stories

Caroline's secret

... glanced around. Suddenly apprehensive, so did I, before realising it was Alice's break. I smiled a relieved smile. This time, I had Mr Cole all to myself. I was scanning. He was filling. 'Please, Caroline, call me Jack. Makes me feel so much younger!' He looked younger. Dressed younger. Jeans. Tee shirt. He was slimmer. Straighter. Noticeably energised. His voice was warmer. And his eyes shone. It was as if he were trying to impress someone. And he was alone. Anna-rexic and her razor-sharp cheekbones was absent. I smiled a proper, heart-felt smile. 'Yes, well, I'll try! Morning, Jack.' I said his name. Straight out. Not a stammer in sight. Jack, Jack, Jack. Fuck me, Jack. Suck me, Jack. Jack, Jack, fucking Jack! Ride my fit ripped body and pierce my tight bald cunt, Jack. Spunk on my tits and do my virgin ass. Do it, Jack. Do me, Jack. Everything I ever dreamed. I really hoped I'd not said any of that out loud, although - such was the cyclone within my mind - I could not be completely certain. Shaking his head in exaggerated wonder, he leaned closer. His breath warmed my throat, slipped down my cleavage and into my bra. I almost fainted. He punched in his pin. 'Got yourself a lover or something? You look amazing!' Grinning, he slipped his card from my slot, stepped back and appreciatively scanned me up and down. I prayed that I was easy to read: black and white. 'Age shall not weary her, nor the years condemn...' I interrupted him, became once more the eager-to-please teen ...

... who always had her hand up. 'Would you still give me an A, Sir?' As his veiny hands engaged with his trolley, I watched his knuckles whiten. His voice became hushed, fell flat, with no hint of humour. 'Yes, I'd give you one. Definitely.' It was a slow process. Like anything of epicurean value - wine, cheese, whisky, venison - it could not be hurried, had to run its natural course in its natural time. Firstly, I added him on Facebook. Then he rang me, though I was under the strictest instructions never to ring him back. 'Do you ever write? I always thought you would, you know? You were a natural.' I gushed. 'I used to. Schoolgirl stuff. Fantasy. Ffffaeries, elves and unicorns.' 'But not lately? You've given up?' 'Yes.' My immediate unconditional answer to his all-encompassing question made me think. Think deeply. No. No, no, no, no, no. I would never give up. At anything. His presence in my life proved perseverance's efficacy. And I would write again. One is never too old for fairy tales. The next day, he Skyped me and we got a little rude. On the subsequent Skype, we got a lot rude. Finally, after six more weeks of gyms and jogging, a bit of fumbling, a lot of snogging, he asked me round to his house when his frigid wife was away. I had my hair cut and dyed; bought new underwear; got waxed and spray-tanned. For forty-three, I looked fit as fuck. Fit to fuck. She leaves the house at eight-thirty, so be here at nine, he'd said. And park round the corner so the neighbours don't ...