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My university days had ended my magical sexual education with the wonderful Laura, who is, another story. As my university courses developed, I had set my mind on becoming a journalist. For two years I slaved at those courses that took me towards my goal. Then, out of nowhere, came the idea of switching to teaching.

Funny how impulsive decisions, even if wrong, can have long distance positive effects on a life. So why the change? I never knew and would consider it as fate, but something urged me, at the end of my second year, to take a parallel course of teaching theory. In those far off days, a university graduate only required minimal extra training to become a teacher. So, I made the switch.

Big mistake! Or so it seemed.

Just being at university was no mistake. I enjoyed that time and the freedom to extend, as my mentor Laura had encouraged, my sexual experience. Gradually, I learned how to weigh up the female students. How and when to make my approach. What pace to take in the seduction plan. Sometimes, but rarely, a girl would practically throw herself upon me. Most times I needed to apply all the techniques Laura had, so sweetly, outlined.

It was a good time. I learned a lot, on all fronts.

Was it a coincidence then, or some divine hand, that, when I successfully graduated, the only teaching job I could find was at the Coldbeck Academy, a fairly high-class upper school? As the head teacher, Mrs Milligan, warned me, "You look older than your twenty-one years. Don't ever let them know you are only three or four years older than them."

Her warning heeded, I started off all right. I had been allocated to older groups who were in their examination year. Because of that, I was only permitted to guide them through subsidiary subjects.

Although literature was a major subject, I was asked to cover was contemporary fiction, not an exam subject. This was ideal for me, and I set out to discuss recent volumes like Pasternak's 'Dr Zhivago', and Steinbeck's 'East of Eden', which, as some of the group were keen to point out, had already been filmed.

Most of the boys were good listeners, with active minds. The same was true for the majority of the girls. One, a rather shy girl with hair pulled back in a severe style and with rather disfiguring braces on her teeth, told me that her uncle owned a bookshop. She, along with other extra keen students, would sometimes stay back to talk about specific books. That was always pleasing.

But an obvious few, into, or bordering on, their eighteenth year, were highly nubile and demonstrated a very provocative manner. As I walked down the corridor, I caught accented greetings of, "Good morning, Mr Baines," with eyelashes fluttering. But it was in the classroom where the school regulation skirts suddenly began to look short, riding up thighs, while blouses strangely became unbuttoned, flaunting their burgeoning femininity.

Thelma Tewart, was one girl, in particular, who wore her sexuality like a badge. Not an unattractive girl, and no dullard when it came to academics, but of all the girls, she was the one who would lean in too close; make bodily contact, with hand or thigh. A couple of times I’d advised her about her inappropriate proximity.

By the time I was into the third term of my time there, I had decided that my real job satisfaction would not be found in teaching. Consequently, I had written a couple of sample articles to two or three newspapers, and been offered an interview with one of them, based in London. That interview proved successful, and I was given a year's probation.

So, into my final weeks, with examinations over, the girls became a shade more brazen. Maybe I should have been more aware that day. when had noticed Thelma Tewart constantly turning to her seemingly excited group, a wide smirk on her face.

Not wanting to be too heavy at that late stage of my school experience, I reprimanded her by saying, "I would appreciate your closer attention, Thelma."

Her lips pursed and her eyes blinking exaggeratedly, she said, "Oh, yes, Mr Baines. I'll give you that."

Other girls giggled, their hands to their mouths, but the rest of the lesson went off without anything untoward. I dismissed the class.

I should have suspected something, shouldn’t I? But while in the stockroom clearing up books, the door slammed shut. Surprised, I turned to find Thelma, leaning against the door, her fingers undoing her blouse, as she leered at me.

"Is this the kind of closer attention you meant, Mr Baines?" she droned, in what she believed was a sexy voice. At the same time, she flicked her blouse open to reveal well-formed pink tipped breasts.

"Thelma!" I gasped. My initial instinct was to pull her out of the way, but that would mean laying hands on her.

"Like to touch them, Mr Baines? Rub your thing between them?"

I was almost speechless with the shock of it. I could hardly believe she would be this blatant. "Stop it now, Thelma."

She swayed her body in a lewd gesture, and her hand stroked around her pubic area. "Or are you more interested in something more." And she took half a step forward. "Oh, come on - I'm turned eighteen - you can rub -"

But, at that moment her words were cut off as the door burst open, striking Thelma off balance, and there stood Mrs Milligan.

Oh, hell, I thought, I was in deep trouble. But Mrs Milligan, her face red with obvious anger, grabbed Thelma by the shoulders, "You wicked girl. How dare you act in this manner. Button yourself and get away to my room."

Without looking back at me, Thelma disappeared out through the doorway. Mrs Milligan turned towards me.

"Mrs Milligan, I had no idea that -"

She held up a hand, "Please, Mr Baines, I'm afraid you'll leave with a low opinion of the school."

I reassured her but added," I-I just wasn't expecting..."

"I'm sure you weren't. I'm so grateful that one of the girls came and tell me what Thelma intended. Other girls knew and I'll be having words with them."

So the incident passed in a sense of real relief, and my school experience finished, with me a little wiser, but without any regrets. I was going to be a journalist, never realising that there was to be one extra outcome from my school experience.

My probation year went well, and I was delighted to be offered a full-term contract. I wanted to be a sports journalist, but for over a year, I covered general events; court cases, accident sites, new buildings. In other words, practically anything. The editor knew of my desire to cover the sports scene and in early January 1959, he called me into his office.

"You've done well in your time here, Harry, but you say you want to do the sports page?"

I thought I was going to be promoted especially when the Brian London/Henry Cooper’ boxing match at Earl’s Court was mentioned. But my hopes were lowered when the editor told me my brief was to write an article about the crowd and their reactions.

As though to add insult to injury, he mentioned the Spurs v Arsenal football match the following week, and again, asked for an article comparing the nature of the two crowds.

“It's a start," the editor said, consolingly, "Don't worry, young man. I've got you in mind."

So, as it was, I got to see the London/Cooper battle, which Henry Cooper won on points, his face a mask of blood from a cut eye.

Fight over, Jack Randene, who had covered the actual bout, took me to an up-market bar not far from the Earls Court centre, where he talked in desultory fashion about the fight, and went rambling on about what a great reporter he was.

At the same time, he was giving vast attention to the curves of any passing female, regaling me with lascivious details of the successes he'd had. Into our second half of brew, I was desperately seeking a means of escape from what I was sure were his fictions. Then I saw his eyes widen appreciatively, and his lips pursed as he spotted something behind me. "Grrr, this is what I call -"

He stopped, and a look of surprise crossed his face, as a female voice at my shoulder said, "Mr Baines? It is Mr Baines, isn't it?"

I turned in my seat and instantly leapt to my feet. In front of me was a stunningly beautiful young woman, in a wool dress that highlighted a full bosom and slender curvaceous figure.

"That's him, my dear," Jack cut in before I could say anything. "But I'm Jack and a much better prospect."

The girl briefly turned her eyes onto Jack, "I've heard of age before beauty, but I've never seen it personified." I liked her instantly.

Jack's face tightened, but he forced a smile, "Oh, a feisty one. I'm off for a slash. Watch yourself there, Harry."

I stood there for a moment, just awestruck by her finely drawn features.

"You don't know who I am, do you?" she said, a charming smile on her full lips.

Something told me I should know. The more I looked at her the more I found something familiar in the way her head tilted, in the gentle quality of her voice and the green of the eyes.

"Clue," she said, with a smile. "Coldbeck School."

One of those girls? Hell, it was barely two years ago, yet recognition was still not immediate.

"One thing I do know," I said, giving a tentative smile, "you're not Thelma Tewart."

She threw her head back, her wavy, long black hair fanning out fetchingly, as she laughed delightedly, a disarming sound. “I suppose you have more reason to remember her name."

"I'm sorry," I said, feeling awkward, and annoyed that I had that name, but couldn't recall that of this beauty.

"I was always on the fringe of that group," she told me. Her lips parted and she ran a finger over her upper teeth in a slow, deliberate gesture, her eyebrows raised as she looked at me.

Those eyes. God, she was gorgeous. And her mime jogged my memory instantly. "You wore a brace. You're Hazel -Hazel..."

As my mind searched desperately to deliver her surname, I could only come up with a girl who had always responded eagerly in my literature classes.

"It's Purdom," she offered, with a friendly smile.

"You were good at literature," I said quickly, needing her to know that I could remember. I also needed to work something out to maintain contact with her. Could a girl develop into such a beauty in less than two years? Well, clearly, she had.

Glancing across the room I saw Jack talking to a group at the bar. Time to be positive.

"Are you with somebody?" I asked her.

"I was with a group of friends - a birthday for one of them." She looked back towards a table where two or three young ladies were seated. "Most of them have gone." Her eyes turned back to me. With expectation? Or was I dreaming?

"Care to move on? We've much to talk about." That was positive enough.

She didn't hesitate, "I'll just say my goodnights, and get my coat."

"See you outside the main door," I told her and glanced across at Jack, who was looking in my direction. I waved him a less than fond farewell, and he made a lewd gesture.

Outside, the air was crisply chill, and I buttoned up my overcoat while I waited. She didn't keep me waiting long. Even in the thick blue coat she was wearing, it was possible to imagine a superb figure beneath the cover.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't realise it was so late. I'm not very good company this time of night. "

"Live far away?" I asked, trying to hide my disappointment.

"Camden," she said. The coincidence immediately dispelled my worries.

"I've got a place in Kentish Town," I told her, and as her eyebrows rose in surprise, I added, "Share a cab?"

In a surprisingly quick time, we were sitting together in the back of a cab. Very quickly, we were telling each other about the intervening years since we left the school.

"You were going into journalism," Hazel said, her green eyes were wide and interested.

I told her of the progress I had made, of my dream of becoming a sports reporter. And how that very night had been a step closer to that.

"Who won?"

"Won?"

"The fight. They were talking about it in the shop this morning."

"Oh, Cooper won it." I looked at her with some surprise. "Shop? What happened to university?"

Her eyes were wistful, and I'd have been happy just to gaze into them. "I started a course at Oxford." A slight smile crossed her face," Literature - was always keen."

I could honestly say, "I do remember that."

"But do you remember me telling you about how I helped my uncle in his book shop?"

Very faintly it came back. A brace-toothed girl, dark hair tight to her head, talking avidly about being surrounded by ranks of books. "I believe I do."

She nodded with satisfaction at my brilliant memory, and said, "Well, I had done six months at Oxford - enjoyed it and helped out at my uncle's bookshop during vacations. But I'd been doing that for years, anyway."

She stopped, and, even in the gloom of the cab, I could see the moistening in her eyes. "My uncle died. He left the shop to me in his will."

"I'm sorry -about your uncle - but what happened with the shop?"

"I packed in university - couldn't resist taking it on. That's how I'm in Camden - flat above the shop. I love it so much."

I asked the question that had been bugging me from the moment she had appeared. "Is there a man in your life?"

Her look at me was fixed, the eyes almost teasing, "Not at the moment. And you?"

"No man in my life," I joked and wallowed in her genuine laughter. "No women either." In fact, there had been no women for at least two months. I'd had my fair share of casual affairs, none of which had even looked serious.

And now I was faced with a strange moment for me. With those other women, when I asked for a date, I couldn't care less if they turned me down. Now, with a suggestion on my lips, I felt a strange inhibition, a fear that Hazel might refuse. I saw that we were on the edge of Camden and I needed to make the move.

"May I see you again?" God, my voice was breathless.

I saw her take a deep breath, before she answered, "I thought you'd never ask, but --"

But? Why was that 'but' so threatening to me?

And I saw that she had a worried look, "I'm going away for a week. My gran's rather ill and I'm helping out at her place in Norwich." She leaned forward and spoke to the cab driver, "Just by the next lamp," she said.

The cab had stopped in front of a shop where books showed in the unlit windows.

Hazel held out a card. "My number. Please call. I'll be back late on Saturday."

"I hope your Gran's all right," I said. She briefly touched my knee before getting out of the cab, and her smile stayed with me all the way home.

It stayed with me for a full week. A week that dragged intolerably. A week when her green eyes, the smile on her face, or even the so brief touch of her fingers on my knee, insinuated themselves into my subconscious at unexpected moments.

All this after just one meeting? What was wrong with me? I had been lucky. I seemed to be one of those men that women came on to without any bother. Okay, more often than not, the initial feminine enthusiasm stopped at physical surrender. But at least I had been able to keep, I told myself, a level-headed approach to my encounters. So what about my response to Miss Purdom?

That following Saturday I felt as excited as a teenager on a first date as I phoned her, longing to see her, and equally keen to hear her reaction when I told about the theatre tickets I had for the Monday night.

Her voice seemed slightly breathless as she said, "I thought you mightn't call."

"That bother you?"

There was a moment's pause, "Yes, it would."

Elated, I told her I had theatre tickets. They were courtesy of our drama critic who was always worth keeping in with.

"Theatre? Where?"

"Theatre Royal, Drury Lane."

She gasped, and her voice was almost disbelieving, " But that's - that's—"

“My Fair Lady. It only opened a few months ago. A taxi for seven o'clock?"

"I can't wait."

That theatre night was all I could have hoped for. Hazel, when she removed her coat in the busy foyer, revealed her delectable figure in a green wool dress. "I wasn't sure what to wear for a night like this," she said apologetically, as she viewed, the over-elaborate gowns on the women around us.

I leaned close to her and whispered, “I'll bet they're all eyeing you and thinking, 'I wish I looked like that.”

She smiled and squeezed my arm. A simple touch, but it was like a bolt of electricity to me.

The show was terrific. The night glowed with her animated excitement as we came out into the crisp air, and she enthused about what we had just experienced. That first date ended with a chaste kiss on respective cheeks, a brief and tentative hand clasp and an agreement to meet on Thursday night.

The second date was a film night and I took her to the Odeon, Leicester Square, to see 'Cat On a Hot Tin Roof'. Whether it was the emotions aroused by that terrific film, or something else, I wasn't sure, but she clutched my arm, in the cab, all the way back to her shop. And when the cab stopped, she leaned into me and the kiss was warm, moist and, for me, utterly bewildering. How could this girl have such an effect on 'Mr Know-it-all-with-the-ladies.' She was invading my confidence zone.

She drew back, a worried look on her face, "God, am I being too forward?" she said.

I tried to ease my own emotions by joking, "Not as much as Thelma Tewart."

She laughed, "Maybe I could be. And there's something I'll tell you about that incident sometime."

We met again on Saturday evening. This time it was for a meal at a cosy little fish restaurant I knew locally, where we dined sumptuously on a prawn salad followed by a fish pie that was just delicious.

"I didn't know this place existed," she remarked taking a sip of the Chardonnay.

"Oh, I know all the back alleys of London."

We talked and talked. She told me all about the thrill of having her own bookshop, about her uncle's secret cupboard where he kept what he termed, 'rare volumes and some books banned in this country.'

"Of course, since taking over I've looked in that cupboard. Some superb volumes - I've intended to have them valued."

"You said some were banned?"

She nodded, "Political reasons, I imagine. And some moral."

"Dubious content?" I asked, knowing that I could have said more specifically 'sexual'.

"I suppose you could say that," And her eyes sparkled. "’Sexual’ would be more accurate. I haven't read them." She added with a quick smile, "But with all the hundreds of books around me, do you know which one I keep by my bedside

"'How to Stop Snoring?'"

I just said it because I loved to hear her laugh.

"Not necessary. No, it's 'East of Eden.'"

"You like that? Good choice."

"I always remember how enthusiastic you were about it."

"I'm flattered that you remember."

"I remember quite a lot." And her eyes were wide and searching as they met mine.

"Should I order coffee?" I asked uncertainly.

She shook her head and her jet black hair wafted over her face, "No, you must see my flat. I'll do the coffee."

I was an adolescent again. Invited back for coffee. Any other time I would see it as an open door, an open invitation for me to pursue some sensuous pleasures. So why, with her, was I - yes, nervous? Scared that I would make some immature comment or show unwarranted expectation.

Her flat above the shop was smartly furnished in a clever mix of old and contemporary. Gentle colours, blues and fawns. The main room had an annexe of a kitchen where Hazel went to prepare the coffee. I could have just stood watching her movement as she reached for cups, a movement that emphasised the curvaceous line from breast to waist.

"Put some music on," she said.

"Ah, yes. Music. That reminds me I've got a choice of two concerts tomorrow night if you're free."

"If you're asking, I'm free. The choices."

"There's that Cliff Richard at the Hammersmith. Or Chris Barber Jazz."

"Oh, the jazz. I'm not into all these young rock merchants. Apart from Buddy Holly - he's special. I've got all his records there, as you'll see."

I went to the black box record player and saw the Buddy Holly image. I picked up an LP and put it on. The strains of 'That'll Be the Day' filled the room.

Hazel came through holding two mugs and placed them on mats on a coffee table. "His music just gets better and better. He's developing the whole idea of the modern stuff. You'll see, in ten years time..." She stopped, her face reddening.

"You're really a fan. So, it's not just books."

We sat side by side and talked about books and film. Then, putting her cup down she turned towards me. I could smell the delicate lavender odour that came off her. I was lost. "I have that confession to tell you."

"Confession?" Her face was very close, close enough to kiss. In my normal situations with any of my previous women, I'd already have had her in my arms. But pleasant as this was, I was fearing making a false move.

"About Thelma."

"Oh, that. But I do recall you weren't one of the teasing ones."

"But didn't Mrs Milligan say how she knew what Thelma was intending?

"Well, she said something," And even as I spoke I guessed where this was going,"- about - a - girl - telling..."

"That was me. I couldn't stand seeing her get you into trouble. Not when I -" She stopped her face going a deep red.

I wasn't too sure what she was about to say, but now feeling real gratitude I was able to place a hand on her delicate cheek, "Well, thank you," I said and kissed her gently.

She moved warmly against me, responding with lips and our tongues touched. The kiss was long and deep, her hands rubbed against my chest.

When we broke the kiss she lay back in my arms and murmured softly, "Since I was eighteen I've wondered what this would be like."

"Have you?" I asked, "Not too much of a disappointment, I hope."

"Oh, quite the opposite, " And she raised her face to be kissed again. My lips kissed her cheeks, her eyes, nuzzled her hair before settling on her mouth. This time our tongues meshed like wrestling snakes. I heard her moan gently. My hand was tight on her side and deliberately she turned her body so that her left breast was under my eager grasp. My fingers rippled gently over that thrillingly soft curve.

She was panting as she broke away. Buddy Holly was into 'Peggy Sue.' "Oh, I've wanted this - but dammit -we can't..."

"I understand," I began, glad that I wouldn't appear demanding.

"No. No. It's not that I don't want - it - with you. It's just that I started the curse this morning." Her face was already flushed, so if she blushed then it didn't show. "I'm sorry."

I held her close, "Don't be. I never expected anything." Then I tried to ask the question I had been wondering about, "Have there been - have you had...?"

She easily divined my clumsiness, "I've slept with three men. All short term - my longest affair, three weeks." She straightened up and looked at me squarely and open-faced, "And I still have to have an orgasm."

Now there was a challenge that normally wouldn't have bothered me.

After the Chris Barber Jazz show, we had another more passionate clinch and she wore a dress that unbuttoned so that I was encouraged to slip my hand onto the incredible smoothness of her brown tipped breast. "It's not torture for you, is it?" Her hand drifting to where my erection bulged my trousers.

"I can wait," I gasped. "But you're sure that you want... We've only known each other..." Me, trying to talk a woman out of giving herself. Unnatural!

"I've waited nearly two years," she whispered. "Since I was eighteen."

She was speechless on the following Tuesday when I produced theatre tickets for Her Majesty's Theatre to see ' West Side Story'. "But it hasn't been open that long - tickets are..."

"Right here in my hand," I told her, holding them out to show her.

The show was brilliant, and when it ended I enjoyed kissing away Hazel's tears. "Wonderful," she sighed, "but I prefer happy endings."

As we parted, that night, she whispered in my ear, "Thursday night, you come here and I'll cook you a meal - something special." A most seductive tone and her eyes glowed in the dark.

It seemed that Thursday night would never come. I kept advising myself to calm down. From way back, I recalled the advice of Laura, who guided me through my nervous first-time anxieties "... never get yourself pent up in anticipation of a sexual encounter."

I had followed that advice religiously in all the, mostly casual, encounters I'd had at university and since. It had worked well. I'd never had any problems with shooting too early. Girls had commented about that ability. So why now? Why was I having to restrain myself from over-anticipation?

Thursday, the 29th January, finally arrived, with a shock. I did not draw back the curtains until I was washed, shaved and dressed. The only thing that had impinged on my senses was that there weren't many street noises from outside. When I finally drew back the curtains I discovered why.

FOG! Thick curling green/grey pressed at my window. I couldn't see the houses across the street. From my place three floors up I couldn't even see the street below me. The radio told me that the fog covered many parts of the country, but London was practically closed down. No underground, no buses, no taxis. Don't attempt to drive was the advice.

When I contacted the office, I was told that some staff had been allocated to fog stories but otherwise we were advised to stay home and write up anything we had imminent and ring it in if it was urgent.

Fair enough. I had plenty to get on with. It was a weird sensation, as I sat at my typewriter, with no traffic noises and the clouded mass stirring at my window like cold porridge.

At midday, my phone rang. Hazel's voice lit up the day, "Isn't it terrible? What about tonight?"

"Will you be there?"

"Of course."

"Then I'll be there. No taxis? I'll walk." And that was exactly what I had to do. The fog persisted but it was only one and a quarter miles.

Showered, shaved and dowsed in my favoured male charm enhancer I set off. I had resolved to just take things as they came. Play it cool. Expect nothing. But be prepared for whatever was offered.

That walk through the exceptional fog was quite an experience. Any approaching ghostly figure only became visible at a maximum of three yards. There weren't that many, but everyone who passed made some little comment about how grim it all was. One car coming towards me travelled no faster than the folk on foot.

Hazel greeted me at her door. She was gorgeous in a plain white blouse and red skirt. "Get out of your coat," she said as we mounted the stairs. "You look rather damp."

With my coat deposited on a hook at the top of the stairs, she turned and came into my arms. The kiss was long and adventurous.

When she broke away she said, "I hope you're hungry."

Behind her, I could see the table laid out for two, with the ubiquitous candles burning brightly, and two bottles of wine already opened.

She seemed both nervous and excited as she hurried away to the kitchen. Watching her movement, I became convinced that she was bra-less beneath the blouse.

"I'm not a great cook, but I enjoy it. I've done fillet steak, with potatoes, runner beans and roasted parsnip."

"Sausage and mash would have pleased me."

The meal was delicious, beautifully cooked. We sat opposite each other, sipping wine, she the white, me the red, talking small talk and looking at each other, our minds clearly on what might follow.

I congratulated her on the meal as she removed the dishes and placed them in the sink. "Want a hand?" I asked.

She turned back to me, "They can wait," she said quietly, her eyes misted. "Coffee now? Or later."

Without hesitation, I held out my arms and said, "Later." And equally speedily she came into my grasp, her eyes alight. We just stood there meshed together, her hips ground against my erection, which had been almost instant. Our tongues probed and stroked. I had removed my jacket during the meal and now her hands moving on my back were like electric charges.

My right hand had moved from shoulder to breast and began unfastening the buttons of her blouse. I had been right about there being no bra.

As my hand made to move inside her open blouse, she broke away, panting, "You haven't seen my bedroom, have you?"

A girlishly shy smile flickered on her lips, clashing with the smoky lust that shone in her eyes. She took my hand and led me to the door on the right. As she opened it a delicate incense fragrance emerged. The room had pale lavender curtains and bed covers. Candles had been lit on a small dressing table.

"Are you trying to seduce me, Hazel?" I said, jokingly.

"You don't mind, do you?" she asked anxiously.

As a reply I took her in my arms again, my hands sliding the blouse from her shoulders. She shrugged out of it. Her breasts were as perfect as my hands had told me. Rounded, upright, brown tipped, with the nipples already aroused.

She reached out and began unbuttoning my shirt, while I slid my hand under the elasticated waist of her skirt and gently slid it down. As it fell loose, she was pushing my shirt off my shoulders, and I shrugged it away as she stepped out of her skirt.

In just her skimpy panties she was sensational. Curved everywhere she should be curved. I could only stand and gawp as she pushed the pants down revealing a thin black bush.

I began loosening my belt. "No," she muttered, "I want to. I've wanted to ever since Thelma threatened you. I guess I was jealous that I didn't have her lascivious nature."

As she spoke she loosened my buckle, and began pushing my pants and shorts down, while my hands caressed over her shoulders.

"I'm glad about that," I told her. "You've acquired a delicate sensuality that suits you. And we might have missed this." That last word became a hiss as her fingers closed around my erect cock.

"Now I'm being the pushy one," she said huskily. "Or should I say 'pully'?" With that she was, with measured gentility, easing me towards the bed by my erection.

She released me and lay back on the bed, "I hope I can accommodate that thing."

Momentarily, I stood there drinking in the wonder of her. From the rich flow of her black hair, her delicate shoulders, those perfect breasts and the curve from waist to hip, it was all too much to believe she was presenting this to me. Of all the women in my life, apart from my initiation with Laura, none had me so entranced, so captivated, so determined that this coming together had to be right, had to give her something she'd never had before.

As I moved to lie beside her, my hand tenderly caressed along her thighs, which, slightly parted, revealed the subtle cleft hidden in the dark bush. Then I was leaning over her, thigh against thigh, our lips and tongues working frantically. My fingers traced the smooth curve of her shoulder, traced down to her neck, threatened to trail onto her breast but returned to the tension of her neck.

Her hands had been moving feverishly over my back and buttocks like demented mice. Now she reached down for my hardness. "In me, Harry. I want you inside me."

I leaned back and looked at her beautiful, eager face, "Sorry, Hazel, not yet. You have to be prepped."

Her eyes glared at me, "Prepped? Prepped?" She panted. "I've waited two years for this moment. You can feel how ready I am."

"Ssh," I whispered gently, knowing that I could afford a few shortcuts. "Just lie back and you'll soon know what I mean."

She gave me a hungry stare but did as she was told.

I allowed my hand to drift over her breast without lingering and down across her exquisite flat belly. My palm circled her pubis and then I allowed one finger to drift into her cleft.

She moaned softly at the touch. And she was indeed ready. Very wet and her clitoris took no finding. I stroked it gently while I moved my head, with lips and tongue working, down her neck, over her breast, lingering for a moment at the nipple, before traversing on down over her belly, into the teasing aroma of her.

My tongue caressed her clitoris as she cried out, "Harry... what? No one has... I've never had - Oh, Harry, Harry. Pleeease!"

I suckled on her clitoris only briefly, knowing that she was right on the edge. I allowed two fingers to wriggle into the wetness of her and gently poked into the dark cavern of her being, sensing her thighs parting further.

Her breathing and gasping were rising to a crescendo. Time.

I rolled on top of her and guided the tip of my erection into her eager entry

It had been my intention to enter her slowly, pulse by pulse. But as the head touched into her, she gave a massive heave upwards, plunging my cock deep, deep inside her.

I thrust and she thrust back, her head rolling from side to side. I listened to her laboured breathing, her moans and as I thrust and thrust again, feeling myself near to bursting, as her inner walls seemed to claw at me, there came a wild keening sound like a flock of seagulls as they circle food.

I knew my objective had been achieved and she was having her first orgasm, and, giving two more hefty thrusts my cock felt to strike at the very core of her as I came massively, spurt after spurt that I felt would never end, while Hazel continued to gasp and grunt beneath me

At last, we were still, I moved my weight sideways off her, as my limpness trailed out and onto her thigh. I looked down at her sweated face, dark strands of hair clung across her eyes. I brushed them aside and her eyes opened. In the candlelight, they took on a fiery glow.

"My God, Harry..." Her breath seemed to fail her momentarily. "Is that what I've been missing?"

"Don't think of it that way. Think of it as something you've found."

She lay quiet for a moment coming slowly down from the high she had reached. "Harry, you must have had so many women to know how to -"

"I've applied what I know to a goodly few, but I learned everything from only one." And I went on to tell her all about Laura and the pre-university holiday where a lonely lady had welcomed the schooling of a willing young man.

"She told me was how I could get maximum pleasure from a sexual encounter. "

Hazel raised her head, "How was that? Can I do it for you?"

I laughed and told her, "You just have."

Her brow furrowed as she said, "But I was given all the pleasure."

"Not all. Laura advised that my main aim had to be to give a woman as much ecstasy as possible. That way, my pleasure would be heightened."

"She sounds very wise. How old was she?"

"Thirty-six."

"Thirty-six and you were only eighteen - very strange."

"She took pity on me."

"Just as you took pity on me."

"What we have just done had nothing to do with pity. You are without a doubt a most beautiful woman."

She raised her head to plant a kiss on my lips.

"What now?" she asked. "Coffee?"

"If you like. While you're doing that, I'll take a shower."

Her head shook, "I'm sorry. I only have a bath."

"A bath will be fine. How large is it?"

An impish smirk twisted her full lips. Within minutes we were seated, naked, face to face, legs entwined, keenly soaping each other in her tiny bath.

Soap on the skin is so erotic. Her breasts became an entirely new sensuous experience. Her flat belly became a skating rink for my excited hands.

For her part, she fondled my chest and back and as her hands slid down over my belly they encountered my returning erection.

"Ah, he's coming to life - ooh!" Her last sound came as my fingers slid silkily between her thighs, bathing that glorious crevice.

Her legs were on either side of me and I urged her to move up closer and helped her raise her buttocks from the bath. "Now slowly lower," I said, and as she did so I ensured that my swelling cock was waiting to receive her open promise. She gave a little sigh of pleasure as I slid easily into her.

We just kissed and held each other. "Oh, just to have you inside me is heaven."

For me, it was so pleasant to be there with her wrapped snugly around me. But soon as the water cooled, we were out, dried, and straight to her bed. Coffee was well down the league, as we explored each other all over again, but this time I was the weak one, cumming before she was ready. It was her fault, she so aroused me.

“You see we won't always hit together," I explained, almost apologetically.

"But it was still lovely," she said.

Outside, the fog was as thick as ever.

"Please stay," she whispered.

So, we spent that night together. Did it once more before we slept, and, waking early, launched into another cosy mingling. The fog had cleared, and I had to get up for work.

"I need some way to pay you for what you did for me last night," she whispered before we parted.

On Sunday we spent the day strolling, well wrapped up, through a frosty London. Taking coffee when we felt like it. Hand in hand we walked the embankment, across Westminster Bridge and along the South Bank. Late afternoon we dropped in at a cinema and watched 'The Enemy Below', a Robert Mitchum film which we both enjoyed.

We took fish and chips back to my flat, which Hazel thought was smart but could do with a little tidying, as she gathered together loose papers which lay on my desk, the arms of chairs and on the floor.

"Hey, you're wrecking my filing system," I laughed.

Having enjoyed the fish and chips we were quickly naked on my bed. Only this time it was slightly different.

"I've been looking through my uncle's secret books," she whispered, as we broke from the initial passionate kissing.

"And...?"

Her hand was already stroking my erection as she said, "And - this."

And her head slid down my body and her lips moved hungrily up and down my swollen member, seeming to give it extra hardness. Then her tongue was licking around the head.

She turned slightly to look up at me and I'm sure she winked as she breathed, "One book was very specific." With that, her lips parted and the purple head of my cock disappeared into her mouth. The unexpectedness of it had me gasping, but then her mouth moved lower and my whole rod disappeared completely, the tip felt the back of her throat. She drew her head back slightly to begin a back and forward screwing, while her tongue still fluttered inside her mouth.

It was just too good, yet I was concerned that she would suffer from me coming in her mouth. I put my arm out and urged her to move her body round so that her thighs came level with my face. She kindly raised one thigh across me so that I had her luscious pubic area at my mouth and began my own licking and probing in tune with her steady pumping and licking.

She squeaked despite her full mouth as my fingers probed her cavities. One into her vagina, the other gently poking into her tight little anus. She grunted and I sensed her lips trembling on my cock. She was ready and God, so was I.

With as much strength as I could muster, I rolled away from her, at the same time turning Hazel onto her back. Then I was around and between her widespread thighs.

Throughout the manoeuvre she had muttered, "I would have -"

Then I was plunged deep inside her, and she was giving that now so welcome squealing noise as I withdrew and plunged, withdrew and plunged, emptying myself with a cry of my own.

We lay for a moment before she said, "Did I give to you?"

"You certainly did?"

"The book had a section on what a man likes, but it did say a woman could safely swallow. I would have, you know."

"I just didn't want you put off." And in the back of my mind, I was hearing what Laura had told me years ago after giving me that service. 'When you find one who does that without prompting - you'll know she loves you.'

That thought carried me cheerfully through the next two days when I had an assignment up in Manchester, and plenty of time to clarify my own thoughts.

When I arrived at her door on Tuesday night, February 3rd, I knew exactly what state of mind I was in and what I intended to do. I knocked, and her voice, sounding a little strained called down, "It's open."

A little puzzled I climbed the stairs, shrugging out of my coat. She met me at the top and I could tell straight away that something was wrong. Her eyes were moist and red-rimmed. She had clearly been crying.

Concerned, as she put her arms around me, I asked, "What's wrong?"

"You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"I thought you were a newsman? Buddy Holly's dead."

"What?" It had been one of those days when my activities had removed me from contact with developing news.

"Oh, Harry! A plane crash - him and two other musicians."

I held her close and felt her trembling. Just telling me had set her snivelling again. I needed this chance to console her.

"Listen, Hazel, you can think about this any way you like but..." And I broke away from her and went to the black box and placed a record on it. "Buddy Holly may be dead - but you don't have to believe it."

'True Love Ways' wafted into the room. "You've got all his music right here. That will keep him alive in your heart."

She ran into my arms, "Oh, Harry, you are so good for me."

And that seemed to be the best moment to carry out what I had intended.

I held her at arms-length, "I have something to tell you."

Her face looked worried as she gazed into mine, "What is it?"

"I want to marry you." There, I'd said it.

For a full ten seconds, her wonderful green eyes stared into mine, then a smile bloomed on her lips and she flung herself at me. "Oh, Harry! Harry! You've turned a dismal day into bright sunlight."

"So you think it's a good idea, " I asked lightly.

"I've had that as a good idea ever since you walked into our classroom."

I drew her close, "So you accept?"

Her green eyes took on a mischievous glow as she said, "I'll give you my response after we've eaten."

The meal was delicious, and in no time we were disrobing each other by the side of the bed. Naked we stood there in a long warm embrace. Her hips wriggled against my rapidly rising erection.

"Right," she said, breaking our embrace and giving me a gentle shove so I fell back onto the bed my legs dangling over the edge, erection pointing high.

Her face looked very stern as she said, "Lie still. I'm about to give you my soundless speech of response."

And with that, she was down on her knees and her mouth was gobbling at my cock, licking up and down and then totally enveloping it in her mouth until I felt my warhead touch the back of her throat. As her head began thrusting backwards and forwards, her fingers tickled at my scrotum, and she smiled up at me with those wonderful eyes. How lucky was I to have such a brilliant acceptance speech?

And this time she swallowed demonstrating true love ways.