tagMatureKnocking at Mr Shaw's Door

Knocking at Mr Shaw's Door


*Miss Sophie Bloom*

It's going to be a surprise. I just hope it's a pleasant one. I really shouldn't be going. But I'm at my wits end and can't stop myself. It's been over two months of denial -- not that there haven't been others, I've let a few virile studs demonstrate their might on several one-nighters, but he's the one I'm really interested in.

I'm mindless to the chill as I stride along. It's already dark, drizzle permeating the air in a fine spray, a damp Christmas Eve with no chance of it snowing, no way to pretty things up. Cars slide past, tyres hissing on inky-black tarmac as my boot heels thunk with a quick metronomic beat.

My bag keeps time, bouncing off my hip with the strap dragging at one shoulder. Inside are a gift-wrapped bottle of rum, a card in an envelope and a bottle of wine, which hopefully I'll get to drink. I know he likes a drop of rum occasionally, he told me himself when I saw him at one of the check-outs after his shift, one of my more forward moments when I spotted and exploited the chance for some conversation -- however brief our chat might be.

Finding out his address was easy enough. Of course I shouldn't have done it, but Phil Manners had proved to be extremely slack on computer security.

I know the IT police wouldn't like it, Sophie, the store manager had said, but it's so convenient if you have access. Yes, yes, he'd added, without me saying a word about it, you're a not a fully-fledged manager, I know that; and yes I realise it isn't really allowed, but I know I can trust you.

So I had the password to his log-in, access to information on every member of staff at the supermarket. Not that I had much interest in anyone else, just Craig Shaw, a retired policeman some thirty-seven years older than me -- I'm twenty-two, which makes him fifty-nine. I'm on a fast-track managerial training scheme, post-graduate, while Craig stacks shelves and works one of the check-outs if we're swamped and there's a red-call. My status as a manager, albeit of the novice variety, means that company policy forbids any romantic liaison, unless we're married that is.

More information gleaned from various sources -- a snippet here, a question there -- is he left the force as an inspector, a detective I believe, the reason unknown. He's been married twice, divorced both times, no children from either union. He likes rugby and the occasional rum. I'm fairly certain he lives alone, but I'm not too sure about any lady friends he may have stashed away.

Former Detective Inspector Craig Shaw is a gorgeous-looking older man with salt-and-pepper hair he keeps short and neat, as though he's still a policeman. He has an intelligent air about him, with pale-blue eyes that make me melt between my legs when he happens to look my way.

I know it's probably a bit ... well ... wrong to fancy a man so much older than me, but I can't help it. I've always been what they might call a randy bitch. My pussy needs a lot of attention. She's constantly ravenous and it sometimes makes me blush when I think of all the cock I fed her during my university years.

My pussy snarled for a taste of him when I set eyes on the dapper Mister Shaw on my very first day at the shop. Since then I've masturbated a lot, doing my utmost maintain a professional detachment. At night I'd use my fingers and favourite dildo on myself, groaning and grunting as I fucked my cunt with that oversized lump of moulded latex. As I said before I'd sometimes crack and find myself some energetic thruster to help me along; which was sometimes very nice but never quite enough. I also made use of the toilets at work when things got so difficult I couldn't concentrate, rubbing my clit or fucking stiff fingers into my sloshing pussy, teasing myself to orgasm, teeth buried in the fleshy part of my hand in an effort to stifle the moans and wails that threatened to burst out of me.

I always pictured Craig Shaw somehow catching me with my skirt hanging on the hook at the back of the toilet door, legs wide with my fingers squelching around my slot. Just what the man would be doing nosing about in the ladies' loos I had no real idea; it just suited my masturbatory frenzy to have him find me.

Anyway, it's Christmas Eve and I can't stand it anymore. I've got the bottle of rum for him, the card as well. I'm hoping, and for that read "desperate", for him to be at home and alone. And of course I'm also hoping he'll invite me in and I can show him just how wrong everyone's perceptions of me are.

I know they're all fooled by the angelic face and long blonde hair to match my innocent features. I've done a good job of keeping my real persona hidden behind a demure façade. I've worked hard for the chance at this career; I've got my eye on getting to the top of the tree, one of the high flyers, maybe CEO of some future company where the financial rewards come in millions of pounds.

But I'm worked up enough to take a punt on Craig Shaw despite the supermarket's frown.

I'm in the mood to let that inner slut out for the night. I want to suck cock and feel a man stuffed deep in my pussy. I'm so fucking randy, hot for Mister Shaw to plunder my pussy. He can fuck my arse as well if he wants. If it goes like I want it to I can let go with some potty-mouthed sewer talk as we fuck, the dirtier the better. I'm in such a raw state that I want it to be filthy-dirty-nasty.

I'm sodden by the time I get to his block.

My tummy flips and my pussy clenches in anticipation now the moment is on me.

Please-please-please let him be home. Please-please-please let him invite me in.

Please-please-please, God, make him want me so I can have my fill of man meat. I want to taste him, to spit on his cock-end and suck at his length so he groans and moans and tells me what a good slut I am. I want to feel his cock fill me, to have him squirt cum inside me. If he has a mind to I'll take the hot stuff all over me. I've had some men go mental when they see a cute girl like me drenched with semen. And I don't mind letting them.

I'm in front of the block of flats. I gulp and try to control my raging pussy when my finger presses the button on the silver panel.

*Craig Shaw*

He'd just settled in front of the television, a Sopranos box set ready run, Craig's way of avoiding all the overly-sentimental Christmas crap saturating every element of his life. It had been bad enough at work the past few weeks, with people descending into a frenzy of consumerism as the day itself approached. Craig had decided he could do without the inanity that prevailed on Christmas Eve. His plan involved a quiet evening in front of the box, a raised glass of rum at some point -- an agnostic toast before retiring for the night. Christmas Day would see a decent fry-up breakfast, a couple of solitary beers as he worked his way through the DVDs in the box set, a pint or two at the Elm Tree pub and then a turkey roll dinner with veg, roast potatoes and gravy timed for the Queen's speech. After that it would be more Sopranos and then a shift at the supermarket on Boxing Day.

Then the buzzer sounded to indicate a caller at the front door downstairs.

"You've got to be fucking joking," he muttered, incredulous. Craig had half a mind to ignore it, but over three decades as a policeman conspired and goaded him to answer. Brusque at the intrusion he barked, "Who's there?" into the intercom near the front door.

The tinny reply coming through the speaker sent his eyebrows up into his hairline. "It's Sophie Bloom ... Miss Bloom. You know... from work."

Possibilities were considered and discarded in the blink of an eye. For a brief moment Craig wondered if he might be in some kind of trouble, a ridiculous idea, he'd never once been reprimanded for any professional misconduct in his life. He knew the thought was laughable as soon as it popped into his head. First off, the company wouldn't send anyone a junior as Miss Bloom to undertake such a task; also, any disciplinary proceedings would be a formal meeting at the store, with records kept and so on. There was also the fact that Craig had done nothing wrong, committed not the slightest misdemeanour, his nose was clean.

So what was Miss Sophie Bloom -- the delectable Sophie Bloom -- doing at his door on Christmas Eve?

Craig did have a vague suspicion, an inkling formed over days and weeks of occasional and usually very brief contact with the young would-be manager. But that nebulous intuition was almost as ridiculous as him being in some kind of bother; pretty blonde girls in their twenties, and an extremely pretty one at that, didn't go for old duffers who were staring sixty in the face.

"Miss Bloom?" Craig responded, extremely curious. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, can I come in? It's a bit miserable out here, Mister Shaw."

A small square button next to the speaker was marked with a key symbol. Craig pressed it and heard the sound of the buzzer rising up from the entry vestibule below. The front door locks clicked open and a few moments later Sophie Bloom appeared on the landing.

Craig stood in the open doorway of his flat and watched the girl approach, his detective's eyes taking in the detail of blonde hair in a ponytail, Sophie's tentative expression, the bulky Puffa jacket bulking out her slim torso. He saw a tartan kilt, his eyebrows rising slightly at the brevity of the hem and the knee-length fuck-me-boots, the ensemble so incongruous when compared to the air of innocence the young woman usually exuded. He also noted the voluminous bag hanging from the girl's shoulder, a chunky knit thing in some garish Jamaican colouring. Judging by the way it hung low and seemed to drag at the girl's shoulder Craig assumed it was heavy.

He pulled his eyes up from a pair of the most aesthetically pleasing legs he'd seen for quite some time and said, "Miss Bloom. Please, come in."

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," the blonde answered as she stepped into the flat.

"No, no," Craig replied, taking the opportunity to ogle the distracting aspect Miss Bloom's firm young thighs from behind. "I was just going to have a quiet night in. Just me and Tony Soprano. You know," he adds, "the mafia programme? I've got a box set..."

"Oh, right, yes," the girl said, her expression puzzled; then she changed tack with, "Well, I hope you don't mind but I thought I'd just come round and drop off a card and a little present I've got for you."

Craig heard the anxiety in Miss Bloom's voice. He detected the slight warble and faster than normal diction. "Really?" he answered, more than a little surprised at the mention of a gift. However, recovering quickly he closed the door and turned to face the young woman. "You giving gifts to all the staff?"

Then he gulped when Miss Bloom's eyes dropped to the carpet and she replied with, "No, just the ones I fancy."

The DVD box set would have to wait.


I was so fucking nervous going up those stairs! It was really odd -- a reversal of roles kind of thing. At work I'm the one in charge, regardless of the difference in age and experiences. Despite Craig's previous career and the rank he achieved, in the supermarket, I'm his superior. Being on his territory unsettled me in a way I hadn't foreseen. Suddenly, he was the dominant force.

And, as disquieting as the sensation was, I kind of liked it.

So I'm there, in his flat. There's a to-and-fro about some DVD thing that I'm only vaguely aware of; I've never seen the programme, but the good news is he's alone. Also, by the sound of it, he's not anticipating any callers. I mention the gift and he asks if I'm giving presents to everybody ... And that's when I say it, when I make it clear I'm interested, although I hadn't exactly considered just putting it out there like I did. I mean, I can't quite believe I used the expression fancy. I felt a little silly using a phrase I would have used a decade before to describe a silly crush. What I felt went beyond the crushing stage, at least in a carnal sense.

But, anyway, it's out there, and he looks at me for a long time, at least thirty seconds, perhaps longer. I can't make out what he's thinking, which makes me very nervous indeed. I'm worried I've made a real idiot of myself; I wonder if he's going to ask me to leave. Maybe I've miscalculated horribly? Perhaps I've been a bit overconfident about the effects of my looks? I feel silly for wearing such a short kilt and the boots.

It's quite reasonable to assume he might actually be offended.

My anxiety eases a little when he eventually pouts and nods and asks, "A gift, Miss Bloom?"

Seizing the opportunity I reach into my bag. I know I'm gabbling when I hold up the gift wrapped bottle and say, "You said you liked a glass of rum now and then ... Well, I thought I'd get you one. For Christmas. Here," I add, almost chucking the present at him. "And I've got you a card, too."

Craig takes the bottle and says, "Would you like a drink, Miss Bloom?"


I gulp at the wine, doing my utmost to quell the anxiety churning in my stomach. I'm in a bit of a mess. This isn't what I'd imagined it would be like. The scene I'd built up in my head was all about me hitting Craig hard, using my sexual allure to overwhelm him. I had thought I'd just use a few suggestive remarks while casually sitting on his sofa, the kilt high on my thighs so he'd know exactly what it was I wanted. In my head I'd seen Craig all gape-mouthed with surprise, too stunned to make any decisive move, with me dictating the proceedings, teasing the man with my legs and my bottom and my pert little tits. Not that there would be any doubt about the outcome, there was always going to be some rampant sex on the cards, but I did think I'd have a little fun before the serious stuff started.

Instead it seems that Craig is the one with it all together. He's so cool about it all. He also looks gorgeous in his cargo pants and faded tee-shirt. I've only ever seen him wearing the mildly cheesy uniform of short-sleeved blue-check shirt and dark blue trousers, standard issue kit of the cheapest fabric, downright horrific on some of the members of staff but which Craig just manages to pull off with a hint of aplomb due to his build and bearing. If the work clothes aren't exactly flattering, Craig, comfortable on his home turf in his own clothes, has managed to get me all flustered.

Craig looks cool, his demeanour unperturbed as we sit opposite one another in his surprisingly comfortable living room. I experience a resurgence of that sensation I experienced as I ascended from the entryway downstairs. I feel suddenly out of my depth, struggling to stay afloat while Craig bobs along on calm waters, completely in control of himself.

I get a surprise when I go for the wine glass and find it empty.

Craig laughs, not unkindly, just amused.

Then I catch him looking at my legs before he asks, "Another, Miss Bloom?"

His interest in my legs goes some way to settling me. My libido flares as my confidence spikes. The wine helps too, I can feel the warm buzz already. Calmer than I was, shrugging off the foolishness of drinking from an empty glass, I feel desire bubble once more.

I nod and hold out the long-stemmed goblet. "Yes, please, Mister Shaw."

"Call me Craig," he says, rising to take the proffered glass.

"You should call me Sophie," I call when he leaves me and goes to the kitchen.

"I'll keep with Miss Bloom," he replies, voice raised from the adjacent room. "Better for us at work that way. Not that I think I'd slip up, I know how to play the game." Craig reappears and walks to me. "There was the same crap in the force," he adds, handing me the wine glass. "I used to run things in an informal style, but some of the higher-ups didn't like it much. You can call me Craig and I'll keep on calling you Miss Bloom. Or," he says, smiling down at me, "you could call me daddy..."

Then he grins as though it's a joke, turning to walk back to his seat, a large armchair upholstered in the same sumptuous fabric as the boat-sized settee I'm perched on. If his seat is anything like the sofa, it's extremely comfortable.

As I digest this little quip from Craig my eyes are moving around the room, although I'm completely sightless to the books lined up on the three rows of shelves in the bookcase. I'm oblivious to the four Christmas cards sitting on the bank of a glass-fronted cabinet and the bottles of spirits arranged behind the glass. "One from each of the ex-wives and one from my mother," Craig had informed me when he'd placed my card at the right-hand edge of the group.

Without taking them in, my eyes pass over the heavy curtains keeping the damp night at bay. I'm too focussed on the warmth spreading through my vulva to think about the flat screen television, the satellite system or the Wi-Fi router. Craig's comfortable home and the furnishings mean nothing to me. All I can visualise are his big arms wrapped around me.

I sit there on the sofa and wonder at how secure that would make me feel, to be held by this man, tight, both of us naked, his mouth on mine while I stroke his cock and listen to his murmurs of how good it feels to have me in his bed.

I start and blink when I hear his voice, and when I look directly at him I realise he's been forced to repeat himself. I was too far away in lah-lah land to notice.

"Miss Bloom?" says Craig, his voice barely above a murmur. When I look at him directly he adds, "Stand up. Take that kilt off ... and your underwear."

I'm trembling as I rise to my feet and place the wine glass on the table. My hands are shaking and my pussy floods with heat as I unpin the kilt and unwrap it, revealing the fact I'm not wearing any knickers.

The look he gives me makes me shiver. It's the hungriest most predatory expression I've ever seen on a man's face. There's no doubt that he wants me.

"Turn around, Miss Bloom," Craig croaks, his eyes just drinking me up. "Sweet Jesus," I hear him blaspheme when I show him by bottom. "I knew you had a lovely pair of legs, but what a backside." There's a pause and he breathes, "Turn around again. Let me see you take that vest off."

I'm braless beneath the baggy top. It's easy for me that way, I don't have much in the way of boobs, just little button nipples on top tiny mounds, areola like coins.

It makes me feel good when Craig nods and licks his lips, eyes gleaming with feral intensity as he says, "Who needs big tits when you've got an arse like yours, Miss Bloom." He smirks at me and winks, eyes then moving over my near nudity. His chin juts towards me as he adds, "You can keep the boots on."


When she was naked -- except for the fuck-me-boots -- Craig beckoned the girl to him with a crooked forefinger and a glint in his eyes.

After the briefest hesitation Sophie went to him.

When she arrived Craig twirled the same finger and said, "Turn around again. I want to see your arse."

The young woman did as instructed, looking back over one shoulder as she did so, her buttocks clenching when Craig placed his palms on her skin, each cheek nearly fully encompassed by his hands.

"Huh-how tall are you?" Sophie asked, blinking.

"Six-four -- why?"

Craig squeezed pliant flesh while Sophie gulped and said, "Because you're so much bigger than me ... And your hands are huge."

In reply, chuckling and shaking his head, Craig answered with, "And you've got one of the tightest backsides I've seen in a good long while, Miss Bloom." He leaned in and placed a light kiss on one globe. "Fucking gorgeous," whispered Craig. "Better than I thought you'd be."

When she heard that, Sophie turned. "You've thought about me?" she asked as Craig reclined, his stare focussed on her pudenda.

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