tagGroup SexA Lesson in Life

A Lesson in Life


We were 18 and in between school and the rest of life. It was a hot summer and me and three friends were tanned and lean from working as labourers on a block of flats and then going to the beach to wash off the dust.

This day, we had taken a break from the sun to hang out at the house of a girl who was passing through town with her newly-divorced mum, staying in a rented place, because they had relatives locally, while they waited to move to a place back in London, where they came from.

The girl was a looker and she seemed very cool to us. In those days, having a divorced mum was out of the ordinary for a start. And Ginnie, the daughter, was easy with guys' company. Most of the other girls we knew hung around in groups unless you were actually taking one on a date.

Anyway, the site foreman was away and we went round to hers for the afternoon.

We played records, we talked bollocks, and we smoked a bit of hash, which was a fairly new thing then, but which this girl seemed to have an endless supply of.

Even with the curtains drawn, it was hot as hell. The sort of day that makes England seem like a foreign country. Everything is somehow different in heat like that. Everybody is changed in some way by the feeling that normal life is suspended.

We got onto the subject of sex and, in particular, onto strippers.

Ginnie, wanted to know if any of us had ever seen a "real" one. One of the lads said he had, on a holiday in Bridlington, and she wanted to know all the details, which saved the rest of us admitting we were as interested as we were.

My mate said this stripper was an older woman, he guessed 30, a bit plump, who danced on the floor in the middle of a late bar he had gone to with his cousins. She took everything off except her panties and then went around dipping gum lollipops down the front of them and popping them in the guys' mouths before she whipped the knickers off for a final flash and ran off.

Ginnie wanted to know if she was shaved. He said No. We were thunderstruck at the question. In those days, we didn't even know you could get shaved pussy. Even thinking about it gave us all stiffies.

Ginnie asked if the stripper was a turn-on. My mate said Yes. She said she thought it must be a trip to do a show like that. She had tried it sometimes, in her bedroom, imagining an audience.

We all shared another smoke.

Well, you guessed it. I got to choose the record while Ginnie went to get dressed for undressing. I found a Slim Harpo record - lots of bass and sleazy harmonica - which was also very cool then. You only heard Slim on Radio Luxembourg, usually, because he was a bit too suggestive for the BBC.

Ginnie came back wearing a mini-skirt, high heels, a feather boa, I forget the rest. I tell you, you could smell the pricks standing to attention.

What she was mainly interested in, though, was showing off her dancing, and she took her time about losing her clothes. Eventually, though, she was down to bra and pants and boa and we were getting seriously hopeful, when her Mum walked in and threw down a tennis racket with a clatter which made us all jump.

Ginnie ran out of the room. The mum lifted the needle off the record player and looked us all over. We were squirming, of course. But she stayed cool. She was a nice-looking woman, somewhere in her mid 30s, I guess now, with the eyes and cheekbones that made Ginnie such a looker, but a bit harder-faced and fuller in the body. I've got a picture from a porn magazine which I keep because it reminds me of her.

"I'd better go and talk to Ginnie," she said. "You boys stay here."

As she went out the door, she turned and said: "Don't panic, lads. I know it's not all your fault."

Somebody said we should go. But one of the others said we'd better stay and talk it out. I opened us a beer each. We'd brought them, after all.

We heard raised voices upstairs and then the front door slammed and, through the gap in the curtains, we saw Ginnie stomping off down the path. I went out to the door to go after her but Mrs C was there before me, locking it.

"Not just yet," she said. "We need to talk. And anyway, I don't want you boys out on the streets in the state she's got you in."

She led me back into the front room, holding my hand. She asked for a beer and one of the lads gave her his. She sniffed the air as she sat down with it.

"Have we got a joint here too?" she asked. "Pass it this way and start talking. I'm not putting all the blame on you boys but I've come home to find my little girl in a situation which could easily have got out of control and I need to know what happened."

I gave her a version and she tutted a bit. Then, after another pull or two on the reefer and the bottle, she laughed.

"I can see why she wanted to try it," she said. "I always did."

I'm not sure exactly how we got there but eventually the record was back on and she got up and started swaying to it. She was a bit stoned but she could really dance. One by one, she beckoned us up to dance with her, as she gave it some slink, then pushed us back to our places.

She was still wearing her tennis clothes - a pink Aertex shirt and a short pleated white skirt. As she danced, she started flipping the skirt up, giving us a glimpse of her panties. I've seen a similar routine once since: Nicole Kidman teasing Joaquin Phoenix in To Die For - great film and memorable scene.

When I saw it, I knew how Joaquin felt. Watching Nicole torment him with little hints of what she had waiting underneath took me right back to that hot room, watching Ginnie's mum getting off on the idea of three young cocks getting desperate for her.

I don't remember Nicole's knickers, offhand. I expect they were pretty cute. But this experience with Ginnie's mum was long long ago and she had been playing tennis, after all, and hers were plain white. They were made of something much finer than the white cotton panties we knew, however, and they were stretched tight. Yeah, that tight. I guess she must have had somebody on a string down at that tennis club. In retrospect, I guess she probably went out for a fuck that afternoon but it was just too damned hot for any male who was not, like us, still all just prick and ribs, like stray dogs.

Still moving to the music, she slipped the shirt over her head, revealing a bra which clearly was not designed for playing tennis in, although it too was white. She had the older woman's advantage over her daughter in breast development and the bra was cut low to show her big breasts to full advantage, just skimming the nipples on the way down to the bottom of her cleavage.

You could tell from her breathing she was getting excited.

"You boys want to see what it's all about?" she asked. "Maybe it's time a woman showed you. But then you leave my daughter alone, understand?"

We all nodded, of course. We would have cut off toes if it meant she would not stop.

She had to heft her breasts and stroke the edge of her bra down with her thumbs to give us a glimpse of nipple. It was such a deliberate action it doubled the turn-on.

By the time the record was scratching away in its last groove, she was down to the white panties and running with sweat.

"Towel," she panted.

We all had one with us. In those days, a towel was all you needed to be ready for the beach. I gave her mine and she dabbed herself dry, smiling and looking directly at the bulge in my swim shorts.

"Oh my," she said. "What have I done?"

She hooked a finger into the waistband of my trunks and it touched the top of my erection, making me groan.

It all went quite quickly from there. She knelt on the floor and started working my cock and held out her spare hand to make a come-on gesture to the other two. We were too naive to initiate anything. But we were too thrilled to stop anything. We got stripped and formed a circle and she hand-jobbed us all in turn, for a few seconds at a time, and then popped her mouth over our cocks before moving on. In those days, remember, none of us would have even seen a picture of a blow job before. And there was this gorgeous live woman taking cock in her face and looking very happy about it. It must have put an extra inch on all of us, in all directions. And, of course, one by one we exploded quite quickly. She caught mine in the towel. She helped one of the other lads to spray her tits and then, wiping herself with the towel, she sucked the last lucky sod dry and then licked her lips. She said something about loving the fresh taste of teenage cum, before it got spoiled by beer and cigarettes, which stayed with me. I gave up smoking from that day on.

Despite the towel, she was left with a snail trail of quick-dried spunk on her belly, I remember noticing, my heart lurching at the wonderful sleaziness of it.

She finished the last beer while we got dressed again and then went up to her bedroom. I gestured to the others to stay put and I followed her. She let me come up behind her and I kissed the back of her neck and put my arms around her and held one of her big breasts in one hand, savouring the weight of it, and with the other hand I got a finger under her pants and slipped it into her soaking cunt. She sank herself down onto it and shuddered. Then she gave my hand a pat meaning let go and put on a robe and went down and unlocked the front door.

"I think it's time you boys went, now," she said. I guess the remorse was setting in. She and Ginnie

left town a few days later and we never saw either of them again.

You can call her a slut. I guess she was. But when the sweat is running into my groin in high summer, I still think of her. And somewhere, behind drawn curtains, I like to think she is touching her pussy and remembering us.


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