tagFirst TimeWarren Baker's Valentine

Warren Baker's Valentine

bygeronimo_appleby©

Another Valentine's Day contest entry from me. I did think to use this scene as the precursor to a multi-chapter series. There was a lot of potential in subsequent scenes where Warren could enhance his sexual repertoire, but I got bogged down in the Granny's Dirty Photographs series recently and wanted to spread myself across a few more Lit story categories for the Survivor Contest. That's why this piece starts and ends the way it does; I made it a stand-alone scene.

I did consider putting this in Romance, but it might be a touch too graphic, and besides, First Time suited it just as well.

Whatever, I hope you enjoy Warren Baker's first tome experience. If you do, let me know in feedback. Even if you don't like it, tell me why -- but make it constructive criticism please. Feedback can be by PM on Lit, Public Comment below, or by email. If you want a reply or response, email is best.

As usual there may be errors and typos in the text. I hope that any remaining fuck-ups don't detract too much from your enjoyment of the piece.

Thanks for reading.

GA -- Langkawi, Malaysia -- 20th of January 2013.

Prologue


The sky was that same pale blue, seemingly endless as I looked up and saw jet contrails criss-cross miles above. A cold day, one of those mornings I always thought were so beautiful, a hint of frost in the air but with the promise of spring just a few weeks away. The day was made even more special by the fact that the doors to one of Her Majesty's prisons had just closed behind me, with me standing on the right side of it, a free man after three years incarcerated within its bulwark walls.

By coincidence, pure chance, the authorities had seen fit to release me exactly forty-two years to the day that I'd embarked on a career that would see a few twists and turns over the years. One that as a young man those four decades and one year ago I'd never have believed possible -- not for anyone and especially not me.

It was an anniversary of some importance to me, February 14th, Valentine's Day, which, on that night, I lost my virginity and turned myself over to Charlotte Spenser's guidance. One -- A discussion with Charlotte Spenser

It happened just before my money ran out, my lucky break. I'd been out wasting shoe leather job-hunting when I arrived back at my lodgings to find Charlotte Spenser waiting.

My landlady, an attractive woman in her early thirties appeared to be feeling a little awkward when she said, "Warren, can I speak to you, please?"

My landlady's demeanour seemed a little odd, not her usual confident self. At first I thought it had something to do with the rent coming due; Charlotte Spenser knew my circumstances -- orphaned at eighteen and almost broke, unemployed to go with it -- but the subject of our subsequent conversation turned out to be something I'd never have imagined.

To say the conversation that followed changed my life is an understatement; it was pivotal and literally did change the entire course of my life.

And it started with Mrs Bradshaw, the charlady who 'did' for Charlotte Spenser three days a week.

My chat with Charlotte Spenser occurred on the Saturday, but the incident with Mrs Bradshaw took place on a cold Friday -- February 11th.

On that day I woke up late. Charlotte Spenser, I knew, would be out on one of her myriad and mysterious errands, but what I didn't know at the time was that Mrs Bradshaw was in the house. She usually came in to clean at ten in the morning on a Tuesday, Friday and Monday, and since my watch had stopped -- I found out later -- at half-past eight, I didn't expect her to walk in on me while I pissed into the toilet bowl.

"Oh my gawd!" Mrs Bradshaw blurted after she bustled in on me mid-stream. "I'm so sorry, Warren she added as she backed out quickly. Then she paused, staring at my dick as my unstoppable stream tinkled into the bowl. "Bleedin' 'ell," she muttered, doing a double-take that would have been comical if I hadn't been so surprised by the woman's unheralded entrance. "Oh my gawd," she repeated, finally leaving just as the flow subsided.

I stood there with my cock in my fingers as the heat rose in my face. I couldn't believe I'd been caught by my landlady's cleaner. How would I ever face Mrs Bradshaw again? Cursing myself for not bolting the door, and after checking along the landing for any sign of the woman, I scuttled back to my room.

I managed to avoid Mrs Bradshaw, a salt-of-the-earth, hard-working Londoner of indeterminate age -- somewhere between forty-five and sixty it seemed to me -- for the rest of that day. The next day, on Saturday, I made sure I bolted the door, even though Mrs Bradshaw wasn't due in that day. I didn't want any more embarrassing episodes, and I cringed when I thought about how mortifying it would be if Charlotte Spenser had waltzed in and caught me pissing.

I went out and did the rounds, trying to find work before the last of my cash, my mother's legacy to her only son after she died, ran out. When I arrived back at my lodgings Charlotte Spenser wanted to talk to me.

"This is rather delicate, Warren," the elegant Charlotte Spenser said, her tone typically refined and well-modulated. I noticed she avoided my eyes as she indicated I should take a seat in one of the armchairs in the lounge. That we were in the lounge in the first place told me this was a conversation of some gravitas, our usual discourse being conducted at the kitchen table, which was always well-scrubbed thanks to the stalwart efforts of the tireless Mrs Bradshaw.

Still thinking it was about the rent I took a seat and waited for the woman to continue. The coal and log fire crackled in the grate and I was grateful for its warmth after a day spent mostly outdoors. "Yes, Mrs Spenser?" I said when the silence began to make me feel awkward. I already felt like a bumbling fool whenever I had reason to talk at length with Charlotte, her poise and grace and posh vowels made me aware of my own clod-hopping, provincial accent, and I always felt like a clumsy bull in her refined and delicate presence.

I'd grown up in a small village in the north of England, having come south to London when my mother passed away. I inherited a small sum of money, a fortune it had seemed to me at the time, but after several months in London, my search for work proving fruitless, my meagre cash reserve had dwindled.

Which had led to this conversation -- or so I thought.

Charlotte glanced at me before her eyes slid away from my face. "Where do I begin, Warren?" she said as she appeared to study the carpet down by her feet. Eventually she gave a sigh and her jaw set in a determined line. "Yesterday," she began. "Mrs Bradshaw ..." The woman paused. "Why is this so bloody difficult?" she muttered under her breath before continuing. "Mrs Bradshaw reported to me that there was a somewhat embarrassing encounter yesterday morning."

A lead sinker of anxiety dropped into the pit of my stomach. By face began to burn. "Mrs Spenser," I blurted, caught by surprise and mortification. What had Mrs Bradshaw said? It seemed to me like I was about to be evicted, just what had the woman told my landlady? Had she said I'd deliberately flashed my cock at her?

"No, Warren," Charlotte interrupted, her hand in the air like a copper stopping traffic. "It isn't really about Mrs Bradshaw walking in on you." I felt a rush of relief at Charlotte's words, at least it sounded like Mrs Bradshaw wasn't accusing me of being some kind of pervert. "It's more to do with what she saw." Charlotte shook her head. "This is bloody hopeless," she mumbled, again to herself. "Do you want a drink, Warren?" she asked, finally looking at my face. "I could use one." Charlotte must have read the anxiety in my expression. Her tone softened and she smiled at me. "Don't worry, Warren," she breathed. "You're not in any kind of bother. I just need to talk to you. I have a proposal that might ease your money worries." She rose to her feet and smoothed her tight pencil skirt over her hips. "A drink, Warren? Then we'll talk. We'll sit down and have a proper chat."

Charlotte walked across to a sideboard and pulled down the mirrored door while elephant's feet danced in my stomach. "Is whisky all right, Warren?" she asked, swivelling her torso to look at me, a bottle in her hand.

I nodded, not caring for whisky much but being too polite to refuse. Charlotte muttered about ice and carried a glass out of the room. I heard the heels of her shoes click-clack on the bare, flag-stoned kitchen floor before she returned to the living room and poured a clear spirit into over the ice in her glass.

"Water?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied, not really knowing what she meant since the strongest alcohol I'd touched to date had been beer.

Charlotte brought me the harsh spirit and then sipped at her own drink -- vodka and lemonade I'd come to know. She returned to her seat after appraising me with a strange expression on her face.

The woman sipped the vodka and closed her eyes. When she opened them again she sighed. Ice chinked in her glass as she swirled the contents, and then, finally, after a deep swallow she began again.

This time Charlotte looked directly at me when she spoke. "Yesterday, Mrs Bradshaw walked in on you at a delicate moment." The woman blinked and settled her green-eyed gaze on me again. "I realise you're a shy young man, Warren, and that this might be absolutely mortifying for you, but please listen to what I have to say."

"OK," Mrs Spenser," I replied, the heat rising in my face again.

"Good," Charlotte said with a nod of approval, like I'd given the correct answer in school. "Well, as I said, it isn't so much about what happened, Warren, but what Mrs Bradshaw tells me is that you're a particularly gifted young man." She paused and looked and me as though expecting some kind of response.

I gaped back at her, not knowing what the hell she meant. "Uh ..." I managed.

Regardless that I must have appeared a complete moron, Charlotte continued. "I'm talking about your penis, Warren," she said quietly. She cleared her throat. "Mrs Bradshaw said your penis is quite large." The woman looked at me with a tilt of her head, her next words unbelievable to my ears. "And I wondered if I couldn't just have a little look myself." She gave an airy wave of one hand. "Just to check," she added.

I sat there, a great lummox in my worn trousers and shirt, the cuffs and collar frayed. All I could do was blink and replay Charlotte's words in my head. Surely she hadn't just asked to see my cock?

Being introverted by nature, and having been raised in a small village, I hadn't had much experience with the opposite sex. I found it difficult to talk to women. It seemed to me they had this secret that they carried around with them. Like they were all connected in their sisterhood -- a kind of sorority of strength in which each of them knew my innermost desires by some kind of telepathy. Ridiculous maybe, but that was the way it felt to me at nineteen years old. Women and girls were an enigma, they reminded me of cats and the way a feline can toy with some poor creature that amuses it (me), before they either kill it or toss it away. If I tried to strike up a conversation, usually in the pub and usually two beers beyond wise, with a woman, I always found myself tongue-tied and red-faced, which for some reason they seemed to find hilarious. I'd then slink away, my face burning, with me despairing if I'd ever shake off my stubborn virginity

And why were there always two of them in a close-huddle of conspiratorial glances and ego-deflating sniggers? It had come to the point where I no longer bothered trying with the chat; they either laughed at my accent or my clothes or the fact I was lacking in funds.

Of course I've come to realise that my view of the fairer sex back then was slanted; I've since known some wonderful, warm and caring ladies, but for a callow youth from the wilds of Yorkshire it was bloody hard going. Even now some of the put-downs and rejections have the power to make me groan out loud with toe-curling chagrin.

"Beg pardon?" Mrs Spenser, I said after a few moments of mind-boggling surprise, still not sure I'd heard her correctly.

"I asked if you wouldn't mind letting me see if what Mrs Bradshaw tells me is true. I want to see your penis, Warren. It could lead to something good for you."

I blinked again. What the hell did she mean? What was it about my cock that Mrs Bradshaw had seen fit to report to her employer? OK, I knew it was big, but my nature, being shy and withdrawn, and coming from a village, I hadn't seen many other dicks to compare it with.

"I ... I don't understand, Mrs Spenser," I stammered.

Charlotte slammed the glass down onto a fragile looking side table next to her chair. She gave a snort of exasperation, apparently at the end of her tether and my thick-headedness. "Bloody hell, Warren," she spat, "just show me your fucking cock!"

My mother had never sworn in my earshot, and I thought ladies of refinement -- a class in which, in my mind, Mrs Spenser belonged -- were above such vulgarity. To hear Charlotte blurt the obscenity like that stunned me so much that I just sat in the chair, whisky forgotten as I stared at her.

"This better be worth the fucking aggravation," Charlotte muttered under her breath as she rose to her feet. "Stand up, you bloody moron," she said less than kindly.

I obeyed, more than a little worried that she might slap me around the head. With my chin on my chest I looked down in disbelief while Charlotte's fingers fumbled with my belt buckle. After some more choice swear-words she managed to unfasten the recalcitrant device and unzipped my flies.

She whisked my trousers to my knees and I felt a momentary panic when I wondered if my underpants were clean.

I think my underwear was the last thing on Charlotte's mind as she stepped back with her fingers at her mouth.

What a sight I must have been at that moment with my shirt-tails dangling while my pale and somewhat hairy shanks lay exposed. My cock hung there, flaccid and benign, but something about my appendage had brought forth Charlotte's gasping response.

Apparently it was size.

"Bloody hell," she muttered, her eyes moving from my cock to my face and back again. "Where did you get that thing from, a bloody horse?"

Shrugging I examined my penis. "It's just there," Mrs Spenser," I responded. "I don't know what else to say." I looked at her staring back at me. "Can I pull me keks up now, please?"

"Hmm?" the woman replied as she looked up from my tackle to my face. "What? Oh," she added, apparently distracted. "Yes, yes I suppose you'd better, Warren." Charlotte walked back to the small table and swigged down the contents of her glass. "I'm just getting another drink," she informed me. "Sit down, Warren, please."

I noticed she was avoiding my eyes again, but I regained my seat once I'd pulled up my undies and my trousers and buckled my belt. Not really liking the taste I swigged at the whisky, but at least the burning in my oesophagus took my mind briefly off what had just occurred.

Charlotte reappeared with ice in her glass. She went to the sideboard and glugged in a generous measure of vodka. Lemonade splashed into the mix and Charlotte returned to her seat.

"You have no idea, do you?" she said. "No idea at all," the woman added when I shrugged.

"Sorry, Mrs Spenser," I mumbled without really knowing why I said it.

"Warren," Charlotte said as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "I think I can offer you a job."

"A job?" I replied, mystified. I really was naive at that age. "What kind of job?"

Charlotte's expression turned vulpine, all narrow-eyed and smirking. She twirled the ice in her glass and reclined in her chair. She crossed her legs and I glanced at them, wondering briefly if she wore stockings. "One that you might find very enjoyable, Warren," Charlotte breathed. "And which we might both find lucrative. What do you say? Would you like to work with me?"

There was something in her tone and the way she relaxed in the chair that made my cock twitch with interest. I had no clue as to why my body reacted in that way, I just recognised, on some instinctive, elemental, almost primitive level that Charlotte Spenser, an attractive, experienced and older woman had just seen me as a man. There was an indefinable glint in her eyes that hinted at something dark and sexual. It was as though Charlotte's whole opinion if me had shifted in a single moment, and it was then suddenly obvious to me that the moment had occurred when she'd seen my cock dangling between my legs.

Of course I was only partially correct. There was a lot of work to be done but Charlotte, she told me a lot later, had seen the potential -- and she couldn't wait to get her hands on my clay so she could mould me to her satisfaction.

Two -- A shocking revelation

Being preoccupied with my own financial woes I'd never really thought much about where Charlotte got her money, but she revealed all to me the same evening she made her indecent proposal.

"I organise entertainment for discerning clients," she drawled as she lit a cigarette. Sipping at her third vodka Charlotte sat opposite me while I nursed my original whisky. "I come from a very wealthy family, Warren. But I'm the black sheep I'm afraid -- Naughty Charlotte, or Charlotte the Harlot as I've been called. Oh, I suppose I'll still inherit daddy's money, he hasn't completely cut me off, but the family rather prefer it if I don't visit too often. I'm a bit of an embarrassment to them these days." Charlotte shrugged and drew on her cigarette. "So what was I meant to do for money when Pater threw his last little tantrum and threw me out? At first I had a bit of a time as a strumpet." The woman eyed me and blew a viper's breath of smoke towards the high, Victorian ceiling. "Only the best clients though, darling, I didn't fuck the common herd."

By then my head was reeling -- Mrs Spenser was a prossie! I'd never even seen a prostitute, not that I knew of anyway, and here I was sharing a house with one.

"Anyway, daddy relented after a couple of years, but by then I'd established myself as a hostess who ran a good house and was having far too much of a good time to go trotting back up to Northamptonshire. So I stayed down in town and set myself up in the business. These days, Warren, I organise exclusive soirees. I arrange parties for single gents, even single ladies occasionally," she added, her eyebrow arching. "Some want a partner of the opposite sex, while others prefer some same sex fun. There are a few kinky couples who enjoy third party involvement, or perhaps a husband wants to see his wife take on two or more men at a time. You name it, Warren, and I provide it' anything from arranging for a girl to visit a hotel to what one might refer to as an orgy." Charlotte sipped vodka and waited for me to assimilate this deluge of information.

"Mrs Spenser, I ..." I had no idea what I was going to say. I hadn't the words so I simply stopped talking and stared at the cool blonde opposite. It was like I'd never seen her before. Who was this woman?

Charlotte carried on. "What I think, Warren is that you could join my stable. Of course it will take some training, but I know a few ladies who would welcome a visit from a fit, healthy, virile young man like you. You have a certain physical attribute that some of my more experienced, mature clients might enjoy." She eyed my groin pointedly as she smoked in silence for a few seconds.

Blinking rapidly, too stunned by the woman's revelations to fully comprehend just what she was telling me, I sat there with my mouth hanging open.

"May I ask a question, Warren?" Charlotte murmured, with eyes like a snake's as she stared at me. "Something personal."

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