Starting Over 19

Sometimes my daughter can be such a bitch. I think she takes after her father, who is a moody sod with a serious temper on him. Every time she sees him, a bit more of the bastard seems to rub off on her. Since I divorced Frank three years ago, I've felt that Patsy has grown more like him, as if there's another little troublemaker developing under my own roof.

I can't stop her seeing him. In fact, I can't stop her doing anything anymore. She's nineteen, and doesn't she let me know it? She's still at hairdressing college, training to be -- well, a hairdresser, beautician, or whatever -- and she basically lives her own life under my roof.

As for boyfriends -- well, she's brought a few home with her, and I know that some of them have been staying the night, but she's old enough to make her own choices now. Not that they're all sensible choices, at least not to my mind.

When she started seeing Harry, I thought that at last she'd found herself someone a bit more -

appropriate

. The boy is very good looking in a sweet sort of way -- all doe eyes and floppy hair, with a nice fit body and a tight little bum. I know I shouldn't notice these things, but since the divorce I've found I notice a hell of a lot more about men than I used to -- not that I've got the courage to do much about it. Years of marriage and then the divorce have left me at a bit of a loss when it comes to forming new relationships with men.

But Harry is not only good looking, he's also bright and he's nice. He's a proper student, doing management studies, which is a notch above the average boy Patsy seems to hang out with. She'd been seeing him for a few weeks when she brought him home and we all had a meal together, which was lovely. My daughter acted like a decent human being for a change. She didn't swear at me, or throw anything -- not even a tantrum -- and Harry was very attentive and polite. At last, I thought, my girl has found someone who might look after her properly and turn her into a worthwhile person. And Harry was sweet and funny and could keep Patsy's old mum amused, so that was a bonus.

Anyway, Harry turned up one Friday evening unannounced to see if Patsy was in. She was getting ready in her room, so I made Harry a cup of tea and we sat and chatted. He knows how to talk to you so that you feel like the most interesting person in the room. Most of Patsy's boyfriends either just grunt or ignore you completely. Those that don't can only talk about themselves. But Harry's different. He's intelligent, funny and -- well, maybe just a little shy, and not as full of shit as the rest of Patsy's hangers-on.

When my daughter finally made it down to the kitchen, she took one look at Harry and said "What are

you

doing here?"

"That's not a nice way to talk to your boyfriend," I replied, feeling annoyed on Harry's behalf.

"Boyfriend? Who said he was my boyfriend?" she retorted.

"He took you out at least three times in the last week alone," I replied. "I thought -- and obviously Harry thought -- that you were going out."

"So? I

am

going out tonight, but it's with Lewis," she replied with a rather smug little sneer.

"Look, Harry's turned up here to take you out, and you're off with someone else. That's not very nice."

"Well, Harry's not very nice," she spat back,

"Why? What's he ever done to you?" I was getting rather annoyed with my daughter by now.

"Nothing. And that's his problem -- the snivelling little git." I was appalled. The expression on her face was quite nasty. "Anyway, I don't have time to hang around here. I'm off out. I'll probably be back late, Mum. Don't wait up." She headed towards the door.

"Wait, Patsy. You can't just go off like that. What about Harry?"

"Yeah, what about him? He hasn't said a fucking word for himself yet, have you Harry? That's just typical."

Harry suddenly spoke up. "Pats, I just thought I'd take you out for a meal."

"Oh don't worry, Harry. I'm sure Lewis will give me plenty to chew on. Or at least, suck..."

"Patricia! Will you..."

"Bye Mum. See you later - maybe. Oh, and Harry?" He looked up as she stuck her head around the kitchen door. "Fuck off, loser..." Patsy slammed the door behind her.

I was furious. My daughter was behaving like a common tramp, probably behaviour she'd learned from her bastard father. Harry looked really hurt.

"I'm so sorry, Harry. She'd been behaving very strangely lately. I'm not sure what's got into her." But I had a pretty shrewd idea that her father's influence was in there somewhere.

Harry looked really upset. "It's all right, Mrs. Baker. I think -- I think I'd better be leaving..."

"No, Harry. Just sit still for a moment." I don't know if I suddenly felt motherly towards him or not, but he looked so sad that I couldn't just let him leave like that. I went round the table and sat down beside him, putting my hand on his. "Look, my daughter has behaved like a total bitch, but it's not your fault. She's just being -- difficult."

He smiled. It was a sad little smile, and I could see tears in his eyes. "I was just trying to be nice to her. I thought that her other boyfriends were being -- well, weren't treating her like she should be treated. I wanted her to feel more like a princess. It seems that's not what she wanted..."

"Do you -- do you know this Lewis, then?"

"Oh yes. He rides a big motorbike. He has tattoos and piercings. Smokes -- not just cigarettes. Full of attitude."

My stomach gave a lurch. I guessed that Patsy's dad had attracted her to bad boys. I suppose in my daft youth I'd been a bit attracted to them myself, or I wouldn't have married Frank. That seemed to be not a bad thing at first -- he'd been exciting and unpredictable, which was mostly fun. He's made his way in business, provided very nicely for me and Patsy -- but later, when he got bored and started playing around, well, that was a different story. And now Patsy had found a boy who could be my worst nightmare. I couldn't stop her of course -- Patsy had become a force of nature. All I could do was worry.

"Don't mind Patsy, dear," I said, placing a comforting hand over his. "She'll grow tired of him after a few days and come back to you, you'll see."

He gave me a sad look. "I don't think so, Mrs Baker. You're very kind, but Patsy seems to like excitement and danger. I just don't think I'm dangerous enough for her."

"But -- but you're really good-looking..." I caught myself. "I mean -- anyone can see that. And you're clever, and funny..."

He smiled at me. It was such as sweet smile. Twenty years ago I would have melted for a smile like that. In fact, I was doing a good job of melting as it was.

"Mrs Baker, you're so kind. If I may say so, Mr Baker must be a lucky man to have a wife who's not only kind but so attractive -- prettier even than your daughter."

"Harry, sweetie. You're a shocking flatterer, but you're such a nice boy." I smiled at him. "Unfortunately, Mr Baker wasn't -- isn't. He's actually a bastard who buggered off with someone else and left me and Patsy to fend for ourselves, so I had to divorce him. Then he breezes back in and turns Patsy into -- well, into the little bitch that she is now. I'm sure she didn't mean to be so nasty. It's just her father's influence."

"I really like her, Mrs Baker, and I wanted to treat her right. Unfortunately, it looks like she doesn't like me anymore, and doesn't want to be treated right."

I looked at him, and there was a little tear rolling down his cheek. I realised that my eyes were welling up again, remembering my own hurt. Spontaneously we both stood up and put our arms around each other in a gesture of mutual support. I held him close, rocking him a little as I would a child. His arms felt warm and strong around me. My tears wet the shoulder of his shirt.

We must have stood like that for a while, just hugging and feeling the warmth of our mutual sympathy. It did feel nice to be holding someone again, a nice young body pressed up against me, but it was only when I lifted my head and looked into his eyes that I began to realise that anything had changed. There were tear-streaks down his face. He looked so sweet, so vulnerable, so...

So I kissed him. I didn't really mean to, I really didn't. It just happened, and I almost couldn't help it. Almost.

And what surprised me most was that he kissed me back. Not the hard little peck you give to your auntie, but something soft, delicate. Sensual.

The strange thing was that, once we'd started the kiss, it just developed a life of its own. There wasn't a thought of 'don't be stupid, you're old enough to be his mother'. It really didn't cross my mind -- well, not until a lot later. He was just a sweet, handsome boy, and for that instant I was a teenager with a crush. And he kissed...

Well. He kissed very well. If I'd expected the sort of 'tongue down your throat' kiss that some of my boyfriends had used when I was his age, then I was very wrong. His kiss was soft, gentle, exploring with his lips more than his tongue. At first a little tentative, then gradually bolder.

And as his kiss -- our kiss, I should say, because I wasn't an innocent bystander in this sudden up-welling of feelings; oh no -- became stronger and more directly erotic, then our hands started to move. I suppose it was me, really, having to feel that tight little bum, squeeze those firm buttocks in my hands. But once I'd sent the signal, his hands were all over my back and then stroking my bum through my skirt.

The last time a man stroked my bum was -- well, probably on a date with Dave Meadows, and that was no picnic. I don't know why I bothered -- probably desperation more than anything. But the last time anyone had done that

nicely

was probably Frank, at least a year or two before the divorce. Harry did it very nicely, thank you very much, and it made me all tingly.

Then Harry started lifting my t-shirt. A voice in my head said "Hey, steady on!" Then another voice answered "Shut up you and let her have her fun!" So I just lifted my arms over my head and in a moment I was thinking 'I'm glad I wore a nice bra.'

Then I did something I would never have guessed I would do. I unfastened his belt and started to undo his jeans.

We were looking into each other's eyes. There was an unmistakeable look on his face. I'd seen lust before -- just not directed at me, at least not recently. Still, he seemed a little hesitant.

"My bra unclips at the front, in case you were wondering," I said, trying to sound nonchalant while inside I was fizzing. I pulled down the zip on his jeans, trying to keep my hands steady.

"Mrs Baker. Do you -- do you think we should be -- doing this?"

"It's Julie," I said, sliding my hand inside his jeans, pulling back the waistband of his boxers. "And as far as I'm concerned, the answer is..." I took hold of his cock. Hard, hot, and not a bad size. "YES!" I said, looking him straight in the eye.

Harry gasped, and his mouth dropped open.

"Now, Harry," I said, trying to keep my voice very calm, despite the fact that I could almost feel my pussy getting wet. "The question is, do you want to use

this?

" I closed my hand around his rather nice, silky-smooth cock and stroked it, gently. "That is, use it -- on me? Or rather,

in

me?"

"I -- I..." he stammered.

"Only -- only I'd like that. Very much. And I'd make sure that you would like it too." His face was a picture. "So why don't we just go upstairs to my room, and I can show you somewhere nice and warm -- and wet -- to put this. Would you like that?"

"Oh God, yes, Mrs Baker!" he gasped.

"I told you, it's Julie. If you're going to

fuck

me, we'd best be on first-name terms, Harry."

He gasped again at the word

fuck

. Reluctantly, I withdrew my hand and bent to pick up my t-shirt. Then I led him upstairs.

In my bedroom I turned to face him. "Like I said, the bra unfastens at the front. Like this..." How I stopped my hands from shaking I'll never know. I was doing something so completely mad that I almost expected to wake up from a very weird dream. But I was determined to have as much fun as possible before I actually woke up and came to my senses.

The bra slid off behind my shoulders, and I watched his expression as my breasts fell out. Though I say it myself, they're not bad -- still nice and round and full and (mostly) pointing in the right direction if I keep my shoulders back. Certainly Harry seemed impressed.

"Wow, Julie, they're beautiful. Like the rest of you."

I half expected him to make a grab for them, like my boyfriends had done, years ago, but instead, he simply stepped closer and kissed me again, putting his arms around me and running his hands up and down my back, which felt lovely. Only then did he slide a hand around to cup one of my breasts gently. That felt very nice, but his belt buckle was pressed against my stomach and it wasn't very comfortable.

I broke the kiss. "Harry, sweetie, could you take your shirt and jeans off, please? Your belt buckle's digging into me. There's only one thing I'd like pressing into me, and it's not made of metal."

His eagerness was almost funny. At least he knew to take his shirt off first, and only then slide his jeans down. Thank God he also knew to remove his socks. There are few sights less erotic than a man naked except for his socks. Within a few moments, there was a tangled heap of jeans, shoes and shirt on the floor behind him, and he stood in front of me in a pair of clingy, pale grey boxers with a nice bulge in the front.

His body was -- well, perhaps lovely might be a good word. He had the adolescent skinniness and the gorgeous smooth skin that only people of his age have. He wasn't what you'd call muscular, but he was a nice shape, with broad shoulders, narrow hips and slim legs. Under his arms there were little tufts of blonde hair, and there was a little bit of soft down over his legs, but otherwise there was little trace of body hair.

I unfastened my skirt and let it drop to the floor. My panties were nothing special -- good old Marks and Spencer's best hipster boy-shorts with a bit of lace here and there, but at least they weren't big 'mummy pants'. I was a bit worried that he'd be put off. I'm not in bad shape for a menopausal woman, but I just hoped that he wouldn't notice the cellulite and the stretch marks -- though I have to say, I don't think they're that noticeable, despite the taunts Frank threw at me just before he left.

"God, you're gorgeous Mrs -- I mean, Julie." he said with what sounded like sincerity. A glance at the outline of his erect cock inside his tight boxers was enough to confirm it.

"I was just thinking the same about you," I replied. And I was. Back when I was his age, I dreamed about having a boyfriend who looked as good as he did. I ended up with Frank. He was handsome enough, I suppose, in his rather brash way. He had the muscles that Harry didn't have, but none of the shy grace and gentleness. When Harry touched me again, he didn't grab my tits or try to shove his hand down my panties. Instead he stroked the backs of my arms, leaning in to kiss my neck. He nibbled my earlobes, swept his hands up and down my back, kissed my eyelids; all the things that men seem to skip over so they can cop a feel of something more interesting.

No, Harry didn't seem to want to rush things. When I suggested we move to the bed, we kissed for a long time, and he ran his fingernails across the insides of my elbows and up my inner arms. Perhaps the guy could read my mind, but I just love that -- it makes me go all tingly. Then he kissed and licked his way from my throat to my navel, moving between my breasts but not making a bee-line for my nipples. He swirled his tongue around in my belly-button, and moved his hands down to stroke my inner thighs. 'Here we go', I thought, 'he'll have a hand in my knickers in a moment.' Not that I would have objected, you understand, but I do like quite a lot of foreplay, and Frank was never big on that.

But Harry was. Instead of lifting his hand up to cup my pussy, or try to get a finger into the gusset of my panties, his hand slid slowly down to the backs of my knees. I started to melt. He clearly noticed -- lovely, observant boy that he is -- because he changed position, lifted my leg up and licked me there. I guess I must have moaned a bit, because he positioned himself between my legs and spent a good couple of minutes licking my knees, front and back, and tracing a soft, wet trail with his tongue up and down my inner thighs.

By now there was a soft, wet patch in my panties. I was creaming. It was only then that he moved up, lying between my spread legs, to first lick my breasts and then suck my nipples, with occasional diversions to my neck. After another minute I was already halfway to heaven, and it didn't hurt that he kept whispering things like "God, Julie, you're gorgeous," or "You have beautiful breasts," and "Your nipples are so long and sexy," in between licking my tits and sucking my nipples. No-one had made love to me like that in years.

But pussy was miaou-ing. She hadn't been touched yet, and my clit felt like it was flashing like a bright pink light labelled 'please play with me'.

"Harry -- please, take my panties off," I gasped. "And while you're at it, take your pants off too. I want to see that nice cock."

That sweet, naughty boy gently tugged my little boy-shorts down over my hips, as I lifted my bum off the bed, and then, when they were off over my feet, parted my knees again and dipped his head between my thighs to give my pussy an exploratory lick. If he'd gone straight for my clit I might have screamed -- some guys don't understand that a girl's clit is very sensitive and she needs to be very warmed up first - but instead he just ran his tongue, pressed flat, along my outer lips. I wished now that I'd kept up with the waxing, but I stopped around the time of the divorce, so I was rather bushy. Harry didn't seem to mind. He just lapped at my slightly hairy pussy like a cat, and it felt fabulous. He looked up at me from between my legs and said "You taste delicious, Julie" before dipping his head and licking me again, this time a little bit firmer, pushing his tongue further in.

I just let my legs fall open as he probed deeper with his tongue. After what must have been a minute or so, he was tracing the outline of my vagina, licking up and around the inner lips and, in the process, driving me completely crazy. When I finally grabbed the back of his head and pressed his mouth onto the front of my vulva, I was just a few strokes short of an orgasm. But he held out, teasing me for just a little longer. When his tongue started lapping across my clit, and he slid a finger into my drooling vagina, I was a hair's breadth from exploding. He finger-fucked me beautifully while he lapped away at my clit, and he must have felt the spasms when my climax hit. Unlike some other guys, he kept up a steady pace, still licking my clit and stroking the walls of my vagina as the convulsions in my pussy continued -- and continued.

My best orgasm in the past year had been with my rabbit vibrator, but that was rubbish compared to that first one that Harry gave me. Maybe it was the thrill of having a male between my legs again after so long. Maybe it was the sheer naughtiness of getting cunnilingus from my daughter's (apparently ex) boyfriend. Or maybe it was because Harry was a gentle, considerate lover who took the time to build me up to a point where I couldn't help but come like a steam train. Whatever it was -- probably a combination of all three -- I kept coming and coming and coming until I was literally bouncing off the bed with the intensity of it all. And all the while, Harry -- clever boy -- just kept on licking and stroking, not trying to speed up or change the intensity, just doing what was exactly right.