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“Where is your room?”I took her upstairs and I didn’t know if I was going to be anointed or crucified.I sat on the bed and picked up my guitar.“She told me everything,” Mrs Hubert began, “in graphic detail. She can be a real bitch. A sanctimonious little cow but a bitch too.”“What?” I said dumbly. “What did she tell you?”“Oral sex. Penetration. Even the special things we did that most people don’t.” She paused and her face grew stormy.“What has she got that I haven’t?” she growled. “She’s young, that’s all. So young that I put her over my knee and bloody spanked her like I used to when she was little. You should try it some time, I think she likes it.” She was trying to be two things at once: the victim and the gracious senior who can’t be hurt. Trouble was, I didn’t know which one was genuine.Everything went quiet again on the Hubert front. It was summer term – my last term at school before university. I was studying a bit, moping around a lot and listening to music like it was about. ...do.....what you were doing." I corrected him, but deliberately avoided any eye contact. By now he was standing right beside me and I could smell the sweat on his taught body and his fruity breath as I began to shake with trepidation. Two mornings earlier I'd walked into the bedroom where Lewis was sleeping, to see if he had any dirty washing, only to find him half lying outside the duvet with a hand wrapped around his cock and wanking furiously. He was obviously near to the end of his actions by the speed of his rubbing and I stood frozen to the spot in the doorway until my son broke the spell when he called from the kitchen and I made my excuses and quickly left him to finish off. Fifteen minutes later and only wearing his baggy shorts he sauntered into the kitchen where the family was having breakfast, as if nothing had happened. I felt it best to say nothing; as my husband Jim might not have seen the funny side of me seeing a teenager wanking into a pair of my knickers. By the.
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