With Mister Jennings

If you asked me why I did it, I couldn't give a reason. There was no one single element to what happened that I can point to now, many years later, and say, "Yes, that was why I did it." It was a hot summer, I was nineteen and had only just realised that when men looked at me they were often imagining what it would be like to see me without clothes on. A boyfriend I'd had at the time enlightened me by going on about how I should wear shorter skirts to show off my legs and bottom. He would rave over the size of my breasts, marvelling at how they seemed to defy gravity despite their weight.

"All my mates want to shag you," he'd gurgled, staring at me in a way that made my tummy flutter. "All the blokes at the pub, too."

He tugged his cock and begged me to go to the bed and sit on his dick, something I was only too happy to do since he had a big one and I was so fucking randy.

I climbed onto the bed and swung a leg over him, holding his cock upright with one hand.

"When I first saw you," he moaned, my cunt splitting as I sank onto the length of him, "I thought about this, Robyn." His hands came up to squeeze my tits while my hips started to move. "You're the sexiest girl I know. Probably the best looking in town."

"All the blokes at the pub?" I asked, leaning in so my nipples brushed his face.

"All of 'em," he grinned.

So I started to wear shorter skirts, just like he said. I also chose flimsier tops to match, sometimes going out without a bra. In the beginning I felt so self-conscious. At first it seemed like everyone was staring, and not just men. But, gradually, after a few days, that weirdness faded. It was just me being silly, I decided, I was just another girl on the high street, my heightened awareness merely my own response at the burgeoning exhibitionist inside me.

However, especially at the pub, I started to take notice of men as they looked at me. I surreptitiously observed the way they'd take a second look if they thought I wouldn't notice. Then I began to recognise the hunger in their expressions, the desire I saw sending a flood of heat between my legs.

Sometimes my knickers were soaked when I got home, my own libido growling.

The opportunities for some good sex were limited in those days: I lived with my mum and dad, and my boyfriend lived with his parents, our fucking being done when we were sure one of the houses was empty. In the early summer, as soon as it got warmer, we sometimes got out in the open air, with me supporting myself against a tree in the belt of woodland at the edge of town, knickers off, skirt pulled up while my boyfriend held my hips and gave it to me in his robust style.

Unfortunately it turned out he was also fucking the barmaid at the pub, and when I found out via one of his loud-mouthed friends who thought he would smooth in on me, that was that.

Then, one Saturday afternoon in early August, just as I was just closing the gate at the bottom of our drive, a car pulled up to the kerb behind me.

I turned when a man's voice said, "Whereabouts are you going, Robyn?"

"Just into town, Mister Jennings," I replied, leaning in to look at our neighbour smiling back at me.

"May I offer you a lift," he said, eyebrows arched, the smile fixed to his face. "It's absolutely no trouble," he added when I opened my mouth to politely decline.

It wasn't because I didn't like our neighbour or thought him pervy, nothing like that, merely an innate sense of not wanting to put him out.

"Well, are you sure you don't mind?" I asked, still hesitating.

"Not at all," Mister Jennings told me. "Come on, Robyn. Jump in."

And that's when I saw him glance at my boobs. I'd been bending forward, the neck of the sleeveless blouse gaping, braless tits right there for him to look at. I couldn't blame him for taking a sneaky peep, after all I'd practically dropped them in his face, but I saw something in the man's eyes that sent a tingle to my sensitive places.

I don't know why I deliberately slid onto the car's front seat in such a way my skirt ruched high on my thighs, and nor can I explain why I left the hemline where it was. But that's what I did, deliberately teasing a middle-aged man with my legs.

By then my body was thrumming and, despite Mister Jennings being nearly four decades older than me, I wondered what it might be like to have some fun with him – just a little flash of my thighs, perhaps another good look at my breasts when I eventually climbed out of the car. I could squirm around a little on the journey, really show him some leg, and when he dropped me off in town I could lean in low and thank him for being so kind.

That was my plan, a little thrill for Saturday. Some harmless fun. That was all.

But I never did make it into town to meet Kathy that day.

He took me to a pub, a nice place on the river. We sat at a rough wooden table outside, on bench seats shaded by a huge umbrella canopy while I sipped a red wine – the first drink I could think of so I could appear sophisticated in front of the much older man. Normally I'd swig a half pint of lager, but it didn't seem appropriate for some unfathomable reason.

It was pleasant out there, with the cottagey setting of the whitewashed building behind us, a willow's curtain of delicate fronds dangling in the river flowing past a few feet away. It gave me a sense we were well away from my everyday life. It seemed to me we were way out in the country, bucolic England surrounding us instead of us really being so close to the urban sprawl of a market town in middle England in the 80s.

Mister Jennings had a pint of ale to my ladylike glass.

He took a quarter inch off the top of his beer and looked at me. Then I saw him glance around, making sure there were no flapping ears nearby most probably.

"You know, Robyn," he said, a definite catch in his voice, "you've turned into a very attractive young lady.

I raised my eyebrows at him in false innocence. "Oh, well, thanks, Mister Jennings," I cooed.

He sipped more beer, his eyes on my face before, with his usual impeccable British diction, he said, "I haven't seen you with that young chap for a while."

"He's gone, Mister Jennings. I found out he was shag-- uhm, I mean sleeping with someone else."

Mister Jennings was appalled. "Good God!" he exploded, eyes wide with the horror of it.

I half expected him to call my erstwhile boyfriend a cad or a bounder.

"What a bloody fool!" he spluttered instead.

I shrugged to show it was of no real consequence. I'd been hurt and upset at the time, mortified he could poke that tubby old dollop with the same cock he put inside me, but by that afternoon I was more angry than wounded, but even that ire was fading. After all, he wouldn't be getting another go with me, would he?

Mister Jennings leered at me, his eyes flicking to my legs.

He licked his lips and said, "No other young man lined up, Robyn?" Then, when I shook my head, he added, "But you've had offers, I expect – a lovely girl like you?"

Next thing he just came out with it, had me gawping at him, my jaw slack.

"I don't suppose," he said, voice creaking with whatever emotion drove him to make such an offer. "Well, I know I must seem ancient to you ... but, I was wondering ... if you don't mind ... perhaps you and I could, well, go out sometime?"

Half an hour later he had me inside his house, his tongue sliding all over my slippery cunt.

I don't know who was most surprised when, after the briefest pause, I said I wouldn't mind if we went out together.

"You wouldn't?" Mister Jennings replied.

It was obvious he'd expected a knock back by the tone of his voice, and I could have laughed at the look on his face, when I agreed, but, to be honest, I was still having trouble believing what I'd said.

When he made his offer I thought about it for a few seconds, really considered what I was getting into.

He wasn't bad-looking as it went. Mister Jennings had a distinguished air about him, his dark hair greying at the temples giving him that look that put me in mind of university professors, barristers, men of a professional ilk. He kept his hair trimmed short, almost military, carrying himself and moving in a quick, athletic way. He was quite tall compared to me, and when I studied him that afternoon I came to notice a width to his shoulders that hinted at some considerable strength.

It did occur to me that I'd never bothered to really look at him before. And why should I, he was the same age as my father – although I did find out he was in fact actually older than my dad, but that came later. I hadn't seen Mister Jennings as he really was for the simple reason he'd never held any interest for me. He'd just been there. The neighbour.

But I saw the fresh detail that afternoon and thought he wasn't bad, actually.

"No," I said, that hunger in the man's face sending signals of my own need zinging to my clit and my nipples, "I wouldn't mind, Mister Jennings."

There was strange warble in my voice when I said that to him, an odd bleating sound as a reckless euphoria overwhelmed me. I also felt my tummy squirm as warmth flooded my pussy. The close afternoon suddenly grew hotter and my breathing felt a chore, as though I then had to actually think about sucking in air rather than it being an automatic action. My chest was too small for my bouncing heart while my hand trembled when I lifted the wine glass to my mouth, the rim chinking against my bottom teeth.

We stayed there for a further ten minutes, until he finished his beer and I drained the wine. It was a surreal time for me, sitting there acting normal when all I could think about was the certainty that I was actually going to let Mister Jennings fuck me.

I was under no illusion that going out together meant anything other than he wanted to fuck my tight young pussy.

His hand drifted to my leg during the drive back, and I let his fingers remain where they were, high on my thigh as we drove along. Mister Jennings was forced to change gear from time-to-time, but his hand always returned, the skin burning whenever he took his hand away.

We didn't speak when he parked on the drive in front of his place, just got out of the car and walked up the path to the front door. I had no concerns about being seen from my own house next door, the high hedge acting as a screen meant I wouldn't be seen from home.

When we entered, with Mister Jennings indicating I should precede him, my immediate impression was his place was stuck in the 50s.

The house was similar to ours: a post-war monolith; detached; big rooms with high ceilings and decorative coving. Downstairs ours had a kitchen, a living room, and what my mother called 'the lounge', a room only used at Christmas and other occasions where family would visit. Upstairs there were a bathroom and three bedrooms, the master bedroom that looked out over the road featuring a large bay window. I assumed Mister Jennings' place was laid out the same, and nothing I saw indicated the contrary. It was just his furniture was so old-fashioned.

And then the similarities and differences between the houses left my mind when Mister Jennings closed the door, moved behind me, and slipped a hand beneath my skirt.

"Oh, you naughty girl," he breathed when he found out I'd slipped my knickers off during a quick visit to the loo back in the pub.

It turned out that Mister Jennings was a superb lover. Well up there in the top three of all the men I've known in my life. He played me with his fingers right there in his kitchen, sliding the digits through my gooey labia, tickling my clit until I was sobbing with the pleasure of it.

He probed at me, using two fingers inside me, rubbing me so close to a climax I had to lean against him for support.

At his instruction, I staggered into the front room, the lounge in our house. Mister Jennings led me to a huge sofa, a boat of a thing that he spread me over, my skirt up round my hips, legs wide.

"Look at your sweet cunt," the man sighed, eyes shining with his own inner fire. "I'm going to lick you, Robyn," he muttered, going to his knees. "I'm going to taste your sweet cunny."

Oh, God, didn't he just use his tongue so well. He held my legs wide, his hot-eyed gaze on my pussy making me feel all vulnerable. It might have been the 80s, the days before waxing and shaving became the norm, but I'd always thought pubic hair unsightly on me, and while I hadn't shaved my bush, I'd trimmed it close with scissors, the effect pleasing to me.

It seemed Mister Jennings liked the look, too.

Him using the obscenity to describe my genitalia sent a surge of lust through me, a heady frisson of arousal that was then heightened by the man leaning in and slobbering at my sex.

That first time with him raised the standard for any future lover. My previous encounters, I'd had two serious boyfriends before, paled to insignificance compared to Mister Jennings. He was selfless, not just that time but in the coming weeks as well. He put me first, my needs were a priority, and that afternoon he got me so close to a climax so many times, pulling back just as I was about to tip, that by the time he did allow me to tumble, it was the most intense of orgasms, one that rolled on and on, apparently endless.

Mister Jennings licked me, he used his fingers on and inside me, he murmured about how lovely I was, raved about my youth and how firm and supple gorgeous he thought I was.

He got me there, took me to a juddering, writhing, gasping orgasm, and then, while I was limp and breathless and sprawled in a collection of loose limbs across his settee, Mister Jennings took off his clothes and showed me just how much he appreciated my body.

He was quite fit, not bad at all. Not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, he was still a middle-aged man, but he wasn't showing his age between his legs. Down there he was as firm as a twenty year old.

"Do I need a rubber johnny?" he asked.

At that moment, even if I wasn't using contraception I would have I would have still begged him to fuck me. I was gagging for it. He'd made me come once but I was ready for more. The beast inside me needed feeding. She was voracious.

"No," I whined, squirming and lifting my feet from the carpet. "Just put it in, Mister Jennings."

I even held myself open for him, shamelessly exposing all of me. I didn't care; I was so hot and ready.

He looked at me, just stood there for a few seconds with his cock in his hand.

"You're here," he sighed, working his fist along his length. "Just look at you. Oh, God, Robyn," Mister Jennings croaked, "take off your top ... Please, take it off. Let me look at you."

So I sat up and unfastened the buttons, his moan telling me he liked what he saw when I slipped the blouse off completely.

"Exquisite," Mister Jennings groaned. "What gorgeous tits."

He tested the weight of my breasts with his palms while I wanked his cock. Mister Jennings then knelt and pulled me close so he could suck my nipples, his mouth going from one to the other and back again.

Then his blood must have really risen because he became quite forceful, telling me in no uncertain terms just how he was going to fuck my tight little cunt and fill me with his seed.

They were his words, the cultivated mask slipping to reveal what I would experience more of that summer: Mister Jennings was a kinky old bastard, and I loved everything he suggested we do. When he said those things to me, images popped into my head that had me wriggling for his cock. I wanted him inside me; I wanted to feel him there, bare, with nothing between us. I wanted him to ride me hard and fast and explode, his semen flooding me.

In reality I would have been appalled by a pregnancy. It was something to dread, a complicated issue I couldn't contemplate. But, at that moment, in a state of high excitement and arousal, the thought of his sperm hitting me, him fucking a baby into me...

Well, it had me nearly climbing the walls.

"Just fucking fuck me," I snarled, lunging to grab him. "Come on," I squeaked. "Just put it in and fuck."

I lay back and offered myself to Mister Jennings as he rose to his feet. He grinned and jacked his cock for a few strokes, then climbed onto the sofa to kneel between my thighs.

"You gorgeous little bitch," the man growled, his torso hovering over me. Mister Jennings held himself off me with a straight arm against the sofa. He held his dick with his free hand, rubbing the head around my vulva while I bucked up in desperation.

Then he was inside me. I had him there, deep, his balls up against the crack of my arse.

"Do it," I groaned, my body straining.

And then he started to move.

I went home that evening with Mister Jennings semen leaking out of me. He'd filled me twice, the first time on his settee after robustly shagging me like he was drilling for oil, the second time upstairs in his bed following a short hiatus. His stamina was astounding, although he did say it was because I was so young and gorgeous that he could rebound so quickly.

In his front room, on the settee, Mister Jennings had bounced my arse off the cushions for a few minutes, really going at me, my shoes waving crazily since he'd hooked my legs around his arms, the backs of my knees at the crook of his elbow.

There wasn't much finesse involved, and I didn't care a jot. He got me there again, pummelling at me and grunting obscenities, a torrent of filth that poured out of him and which would have disgusted me usually. But I was far gone all it did was excite me more.

It got worse, the lewd banter going back and forth, both of us spitting epithets like bullets, urging one another on with potty-mouthed exhortations.

That first fuck set the tone for our affair. For the four months we were lovers, all the times I was with Mister Jennings, I was a different girl. I would sneak into his house and leave the everyday Robyn behind. With him I could be as bad as I dared, and he made me worse. He introduced me to role-paly and opened my eyes to some very naughty scenes.

Some of what we did makes me blush, but no matter how shocked my present day self is by what I got up to all those years ago, my pussy still clenches and sipes desire whenever I think about it.

He had me in that front room, my pussy squelching around his shaft while my tits shivered and rolled beneath the onslaught. I rubbed my clit and came, gasping and moaning, really letting it go since there was no chance of anyone walking in to catch me at it.

I felt so free, really able to express myself, and I was enjoying the heady sensation of being truly able to vocalise how good it felt to get fucked, when Mister Jennings gave three vehement thrusts, holding himself balls deep on the third.

"I'm coming," he grunted, his expression all shocked, like he didn't know what was happening. "Oh, Robyn, you lovely girl..."

He gasped and moaned, eyes rolling, teeth clenched as his cock pulsed inside me.

"I'm coming inside you, Robyn. Oh ... Oh, God, you're so gorgeous."

"Give it to me," I moaned, a primal need for his seed making me blink and groan. That's when I said it, the words just slipping out of me. "Fuck a baby into me, Mister Jennings," I whined.

He stared down at me, face slackening while his mouth fell open.

"Oh, Robyn," the man sighed, his cock sliding back and forth, jizm sliding out of me. "That's a beautiful thing to hear."

We fucked, slow and languid, cum dribbling through the crease of my backside while Mister Jennings leaned in and kissed my mouth.

It felt so intimate, taking my lover's cum so deep inside me. My heart swelled with emotion – I could have cried.

It went on for a minute or two longer, with Mister Jennings gliding in and out, our mouths locked, tongues sliding and writhing.

Then he pulled out and knelt upright, his cock slackening.