Bishop's Purple by Secret Narrative

Extract:

 

My shoes aren't appropriate. I need to ditch vanity and deploy practicality. I never wear tights; my footwear is perfect for my hosiery. Stockings and vertiginous heels, in spite of, or perhaps because of my age I refused to go flat. Until now.

 

I could not have picked a worse day to shop. It is three days until the start of a new school term and it seems as if every child in the area is being kitted out in overlarge blazers and appropriate shoes. I wonder if I should buy a similar blazer, plait my hair, wear white ankle socks and adopt the sluttish schoolgirl look for my next fuck.

 

Since I seduced Simon Conrad, while home-tutoring him through his A Level re-sit, I have become insatiable. Now, when I look into the mirror, the girl I used to be stares back at me, defiant, brittle, sparkling and brazen. Simon's cum snakes its way down my thighs and I inhale the tangy scent of him.

 

When he's down from university, he aims for my home like a guided missile. There is no deviation. Just deviance. I have awakened a monster. He is his father's son, if only his father knew. Simon is receptive to all learning and I am an outstanding teacher. I teach him well. I teach him repeatedly and thoroughly. When the lesson is learned, I am sure to deliver plenary; before the lesson begins, halfway through the lesson at hand, and at the end of a series of lessons. Providing his pleasure and onward progress is my pleasure and at the same time, I love to tease him mercilessly.

 

I lash him helpless to my four posts. Work him over until he's gulping and gasping for air like a fish out of water. Drowning, drowning while my relentless thirst for his young, hot, hard cock drives us to orgasmic flow.

 

He will tire of me soon. My ancient flesh will lose its allure. When he has learned by rote everything I can teach him, he will leave me. Take his newfound knowledge to untried skin and it will be his turn to play the merciless tease, until she's limp beneath him and besotted. And he'll move on. I have created a heartbreaker, a sex-addict, a fucking-machine on a relentless quest for pleasure. I am his Mrs. Robinson. Here's to me.

 

My shoes. Flat, leather, practical. I have a lecture tour and between stage-struts, I shall opt for a quickstep of comfort and speed.

 

On my way home, I see it; in the window of the YMCA Charity Shop. A Grandmother Clock. I stop short. The hands on the face declare that the time is three minutes' past three. It is correct. It's beautiful, about six feet in height and polished and curved in all the right places. Minutes pass as I adore her and yet her hands do not move. She has stopped keeping time at the exact moment I laid eyes on her face. I am in love. It is a sign of old age. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. I must have her.