It was last summer and mum and dad had decided to go on a fortnight's camping holiday around the Lake District. They were discussing me at the dinner table a week before setting off. It was bloody typical. As usual they talked about me as if I wasn't there.
"Will Ken be OK?" asked my father – I'm 18, for crying out loud.
"Yes, he'll be fine. He knows how to get his own breakfast and lunch and there's TV dinners in the evening, or takeaways," said mum – I hate fucking takeaways!
"And anyway," mum added, "I've asked that lovely Mrs Rosario from next door to keep an eye on him."
Dad grunted. "Well make sure it's only an eye – she's a professional body builder and you know what they're like, worse than blooming rabbits," he said.
For dad the word "blooming" is as far up the scale of near swear words as he'll ever go. It's almost as bad as "fucking" in his vocabulary.
"Now, Jim," said mum, "Mrs Rosario is a perfectly lovely lady. Just because she's, well, a little dark because of her Latin background is no reason to criticize her. I think she's lovely."
Dad sniffed.
A week later they were gone and I could get on with enjoying myself. The day was going to be stinking hot – summer was superb this year – and I was going to sunbathe out in the back garden.
Although I'm only 18, mum says I'm "a hunk". She says I've got Victor Mature black hair – whoever Victor fucking Mature is – and his sensual lips. I'm just over six feet tall. Don't ask me how fucking tall Victor Mature is! And I'm sorry about the "f" word, but every second word in the cricket team I play for is "fuck" this, or "fuck" that.
Since I play football all winter and cricket all summer, I'm in good shape. I'm a fast bowler, and unlike those show ponies who ponce around as specialist batsmen, you have to be fit to bowl. Try bowling 10 or 12 overs in one spell and having to bend your back in the hot sun, you'll find out what I mean. Just ask Freddie Flintoff!
Anyway, I pulled on my favourite scants – a very tight-fitting thong I'd purchased by mail order and kept out of sight of mum or dad. They'd be appalled if they saw me in it! It's made of shiny red satin and it cups my ball bag and cock (eight inches, uncut, honest!) beautifully tightly.
I'd just got my towel, my sun tan lotion and one of my favourite cricket books, all about great fast bowlers by John Arlott, together under my arm when the fucking phone rang!
"Ello Ken," said Mrs Rosario's slightly accented voice. "I see your parents have just left. Care to pop over for a cup of tea and a chat?"
"Er, well, I was going out to sunbathe," I told her.
"Come on over, we'll have a chat, then you can sunbathe by my pool," said Mrs Rosario. That sounded terrific. She's got a great little swimming pool, secluded from our place and her other neighbours.
"I'm on my way," I said, and pulled on a T-shirt and shorts before making my way next door.
To be honest I wasn't too unhappy about her call. Mrs Rosario is a shortish woman, about 5 foot 6, with a terrific head of dark brown hair, all sort of frizzed up. Although she's ancient – she must be about 30 – she's got a terrific figure. I know because I've seen her in tiny little shorts and a sweater. Her breasts are big for a body builder, her calves are nicely muscled and dark brown and she's got a lovely smile, even though, as I say, she's ancient. Fuck, she's probably only 10 years younger than mum!
I went round to her back door and she opened it and let me step inside. She was wearing a shiny satin little housecoat and her hair looked at if she'd just been the hairdressers, all fluffed up and shiny. Her face was shiny, too.
"Oh Ken, I was just finishing my work out," she said. "Put that towel and stuff on the kitchen table and watch me finish. You might learn a thing or two." Prophetic words, indeed, as it turned out!
We went down into her basement gym, which has a long bay window looking straight out onto her pool. When we got there, Mrs Rosario peeled off her housecoat and stepped onto her striding machine. It was the first time I'd seen her less than clothed in a T-shirt and shorts – and it took my fucking breath away!
Mrs Rosario was wearing a little brown bikini, made of some stretchy sort of satiny material. It was the same colour as her superbly tanned and toned skin, so much so that it was difficult to tell where the bikini ended and where her skin started.
Her breasts were quite full, only about 34-inchers, I reckoned, but with full globes. You could see the lovely bulges at the side of the cups. Her bikini bottom covered her pubes OK, but it was cut scandalously briefly at the back, showing off these succulent brown buns. I felt my cock starting an upwards progression in my thong!
Mrs Rosario was soon pumping the arms of her strider back and forth, her calves and thighs gleaming and shiny as she exercised. She was really moving – it was a great sight. I'm afraid I just stood there and gulped as she worked away. Now I may have been a virgin but I knew hot tottie when I saw it and Mrs Rosario was hot!
Then she looked at me and saw my gaping expression. A big grin formed on her lovely face, her brown eyes sparkling as she regarded me with amusement.
"Oh, I'm sorry Ken," she said, "this must be so boring for you. There's some magazines over there, have a look through them. The one on the top is one of my favourites."
I walked over to a work-out bench where a pile of glossy magazines was piled up. The top one was called "Buffed Babes" and carried a "Warning, adults only" sticker.
It was an American publication and on the cover was a picture of a Mrs Rosario look alike wearing an even briefer bikini than the brown garment she was exercising in.
"I look a little younger there, don't I?" I heard her ask, hardly breathing heavily at all, despite her strenuous work-out.
I picked up the magazine and looked at her stunning picture first, then the date on the cover: April, 1998.
