It was 10 years ago now, but I can remember every sight, sound and smell of that incredible week-end. Mum had to go up to London for reasons she never explained and while I was 18-years-old I was still very much a "mummy's boy". Crikey, have I grown up!
Anyway, mum called over the back yard fence and our neighbour, Mrs Johnson came out and walked down her garden to talk to her.
I was standing some yards away but I heard mum explain: "I've got to go to London this afternoon for the week-end, I'll be back Sunday night. Something's come up, you see."
Mrs Johnson nodded her honey-blonde head sagely. I think, between you and me, she knew just what it was all about, they were pretty close for neighbours.
"Roger's such a baby, and I don't want to leave him alone in the house now Mike's left me, so would you be an absolute pet and take him in, Jill?"
Mrs Johnson again nodded her lovely honey-blonde head and smiled at me. I can see her piercingly blue eyes now! "It will be a pleasure, Dot," she told mum.
And that was how I came to be sitting in the lounge of Mrs Johnson's home that evening after a meal of fish and chips – it was a Friday night, we always enjoyed fish and chips, Fridays, and Mrs J knew that. I was, of course, quite used to spending hours in the Johnsons' lounge. It was there eight years before when I was a precocious 10-year-old that Mr Johnson had started teaching me the rudiments of chess, then the traps, then the strategies.
I was now the English schoolboys' champion and not interested in girls in the slightest, despite my rather handsome, dark-haired looks. I'm told that my jet-black hair is still a woman puller. But that's another story.
Girls, as I say, didn't arouse me. I was far more interested in the intricacies of the Sicilian defence, or the Queen's gambit declined, or even the rough-and-tumbles to be enjoyed using dear old Captain Evans' gambit, than chasing skirt.
Mr Johnson, a retired school mathematics teacher and 20 years older than Mrs Johnson, who was 40 at the time of this story, had died the year before, aged 59, from cancer. His last words to me, two days before his death, had been: "Remember, young Roger, always castle on the same side of the board as your opponent – always!"
Now Mrs Johnson was a widow and seemed to be enjoying it. Her appearance had blossomed since Mr Johnson's death, her hair was much stronger and shinier, she had it done once a week. Her figure was full, but she had taken to wearing mini skirts and high heels, something she never did when Mr Johnson was around.
Around 9 o'clock, as Mrs Johnson was pouring her umpteenth sherry, I said I was feeling sleepy and could I go to bed? She smiled at me, said "Of course, darling" in a slightly slurred voice and showed me to the guest's bedroom.
It was a warm summer's evening, so I stripped naked and slipped between the sheets. A few minutes later, Mrs Johnson tapped on the door and walked in. She was no longer wearing her dress, but she'd kept her high heels on. Now she was merely clad in a shiny black slip, which showed much more of her big bust than I'd ever seen before.
It was obvious that she wasn't wearing a bra, as I could see the outlines of her nipples thrusting at the gleaming black material. Although I was too naive to realise it then, my memory tells me that the sheen of the material across her hips betrayed the fact that she wasn't wearing panties, either!
Mrs Johnson was clutching a book in her hand. I thought it might be some interesting bedtime reading from her late husband's extensive chess library, like Karpov's Greatest Games, or 200 Mikhail Tal Sacrifices, something I could really get my teeth into. But it was not a book on chess.
"This was Andrew's favourite book, darling Roger," she said, handing it to me. "It's rather racy, I think that's the right word. I hope you enjoy it. It's not very long, but I think you'll find it very exciting."
And with that she bent over and gave me a sloppy smooch on my cheek, the fumes of her sherry invading my nostrils as she did.
When she had left the bedroom and quietly closed the door, I looked at the slim, 175-page volume. It was entitled "Petticoat Punishment" and told the story of a young man who is sent to a girls' finishing school – quite why was never really satisfactorily explained – where he became an extremely willing plaything of six nubile young ladies aged between 18 and 21.
The volume was illustrated by about seven or eight colour illustrations of a young man being cruelly punished by extremely strict dominatrixes in a lavishly-equipped torture chamber and which had absolutely nothing to do with the book's narrative whatsoever.
I lay down and read the thing from cover to cover. Soon after starting I found myself playing with my cock, which was a mere six inches long but which, as my current wife points out is immaterial. "It's not the length, it's the control you've got over it that counts," she's always telling me. By the time I had finished the trials, tribulations and entertainments the young man endures and enjoys at the finishing school, I was hugely aroused. I'd never read anything like it. Well, it was certainly different from Bobby Fischer's 100 Memorable Games, I can tell you!
The next morning was a still English summer's morning, sunny and hot, so I pulled on some shiny red satin shorts, a white T-shirt and went downstairs to find Mrs Johnson cooking breakfast.
She turned and gave me a big smile and then I saw she was wearing the shiny silk slip she'd had on the previous night when she had entered my bedroom to lend me the erotic novel.
"Hello, big boy," said Mrs Johnson, "did you sleep well?"
I nodded, slipping into the semi-circular dining couch area. "Yes, thank-you, Mrs Johnson," I said, watching her stir the scrambled eggs.
"And did you enjoy the book I lent you?" she asked, still fixing me with a big smile.
I think I might have blushed. "Er, it was, er, very interesting," I said.
Mrs Johnson laughed. "The illustrations always amuse me," she said, pouring the scrambled eggs over toast set on two plates. "They have absolutely nothing to do with the story line whatsoever – more's the pity!"
Then we tucked into breakfast, Mrs Johnson sitting very close to me, her full but firm thigh pressing against mine. She smelled of perfume and her hair was gleaming, almost golden. Her nipples stuck out into the material and I could see large areas of bare flesh at the top of her slip.
"Sorry, Roger," she said, just as we finished, "I hope my decolletage isn't worrying you – decolletage, that's such a lovely French word, and it appears in Petticoat Punishment a lot, doesn't it?"
