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Mrs Johnsons Opening Gambit


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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?”

I took that to be three questions, but I answered only one. “No, it’s lovely,” I mumbled, referring to question one.

Mrs Johnson smiled at me again, then took me by the hand and whispered: “Come with me, Roger.”

She then moved out from the dining couch and led me out of the kitchen and upstairs, still holding me firmly by the hand. My legs trembled and my heart was pounding, but I did nothing to stop her moves. Now, of course, I know that she had decided to seduce me and when a woman wants to seduce a man she damn well does, so there was nothing I could have done about it.

Mrs Johnson led me into her bedroom and pulled my T-shirt from my unprotesting body. Then she patted several large, fluffy pillows up and told me to “Get on the bed”. I obeyed and she sat up on the bed next to me, her body flush against mine.

“Decolletage,” she said again, savouring the word. “Such a perfect description, isn’t it?”

I nodded, speechless, staring at her heaving globes appearing above the top of her slip. Then, with a firm, gentle but insistent hand, Mrs Johnson pulled on my neck and brought my face down to her bosom. I inhaled the wonderful scent of perfume, then kissed the left upper globe, the nearest to me.

Mrs Johnson let out a small sigh and then grasped the front of the slip and pulled it down until it was gathered beneath her breasts. The sight of her big titties, with dark brown nipples and equally dark large rings around them was the most stunningly erotic sight I had ever set eyes on. Instinctively I placed my mouth on her left nipple and sucked it, an action which drew a sharp gasp from my 40-year-old seductress.

My kissing and sucking on her nipple was not a reaction to a maternal approach, as far as I was concerned. Mum is short and scrawny, Mrs Johnson is almost my height – five foot 10 – and busty. But it was just the most natural thing to do, to suck her nipple. I then grazed my mouth across her big boobs and implanted another sucking kiss, this time on her right nipple.

As I did so, Mrs Johnson felt around my body to my shorts and with a gasped “Lift your bottom, Roger” she slipped them from my body, revealing my stiff six inches of uncut cock.

She no sooner had me naked, than she was bending over my penis and then I felt one of the most ineffably beautiful sensations I have, to this very day, ever experienced.

Her mouth closed around my helmet, sucking and kissing my hardness, her tongue licking inside my foreskin, her mouth swallowing what I knew to be copious amounts of juice that had collected there. At that moment I could hear only my heart thumping and the ticking of a clock on her dressing table. To this day, I cannot hear a clock ticking without thinking of fellatio and Mrs Johnson.

As soon as I registered the clock’s tick, Mrs Johnson pulled her mouth away, a move which disappointed me, but then she rubbed her breasts across my cock and balls – a move which absolutely delighted me!

After a few strokes from side to side, with her erect nipples rubbing along my stiff shaft, Mrs Johnson sat up and knelt, her knees on either side of my torso. Then she hitched up the hem of her slip and rose to my face. At first I gasped at the sight of her pussy, its fleshy lips full and thick below a little copse of light brown pubic hair at her mons. Then I inhaled and for the very first time in my life delighted in the incredibly intoxicating aroma of a mature woman on heat! The perfume exuding from her pussy sent me into a sort of spin and then I was doing what I knew she wanted.

My tongue licked along her labia lips, tasting the secretions of salty sex, then I kissed her full on the lips, before tonguing my way down to her wet cunt, dripping love juice like a faucet! As I performed my very first oral adoration of a woman’s pussy, Mrs Johnson started to graunch and grind her pudenda against my mouth and face.

I was interrupted in my minge ministrations by a panting sound from Mrs Johnson, followed by a sobbing and then cries of “Oh Roger, lick my clit, lick my clit!” Which was all very well, but I didn’t have the faintest idea what she was talking about. I guess I must have dozed off through sex instruction classes, or been pondering a complication in the French defence at the time.

But Mrs Johnson came to her own rescue by talking me down – or up, rather – like an air traffic controller.

“Up from my cunt, up, high, higher – yes, yes! There! There!”

And my tongue contacted a little erect bud which I took to be the target and I licked and kissed it until Mrs Johnson commanded: “Press your tongue flat against it, Roger. Yes! Yes! That’s it, that’s it!”

All this was followed by a high-pitched wail as her orgasm obviously flooded through her, then she fell off me and lay beside me, her face aglow with a beaming smile.

“Thank-you, darling,” she said, “I needed that, as if you couldn’t tell. Now, what can we do for you. Would you like to fuck me?”

I really didn’t know. My cock was as stiff as a policeman’s truncheon and my heart was pounding. I knew I was excited, but I didn’t know about fucking. However, I was always a polite young man, so I replied: “Yes, please, Mrs Johnson.”

“Here,” she said, smiling at me and widening her legs and thighs, “let me help.”

And she took hold of my cock and as I bent over her she guided it to her cunt and then natural instinct took over and I thrust up her satiny smooth vagina, feeling the slippery walls of her passage gripping my cock and pulling my foreskin back as I entered her.

Mrs Johnson smiled as I pumped up and down on her large luxury body, which while large was not fat, just – well, large. Her hands ran across my heaving, humping buttocks and stroked them as I worked away to my ejaculation, coming far too soon, I am sure, but with a supremely satisfying explosion.

After I had calmed, Mrs J went to her bathroom and cleaned up, then indicated to me that I should join her in her shower. We soaped each other and then she towelled me dry before allowing me to do the same to her.

Back on her bed, Mrs Johnson produced a companion volume to “Petticoat Punishment”, titled “Petticoat Perversions”, where the young man is taken down to the finishing school’s basement torture chamber. There, the six lovely ladies have their wicked ways with him, joined now by the headmistress and her deputy, Miss Whipwell. This time, the illustrations in the book were much more in line with the narrative.

Mrs Johnson asked me to read some of the saucier scenes out aloud and after several of these, my cock was again standing to attention. This time, Mrs Johnson initiated me into the delights of 69 – soixante-neuf, as she insisted on calling it – before standing at the head of the bed and thrusting once more to a noisy orgasm as I sat beneath her pulsating pussy.

Again I was invited to fuck her, and this time I managed a little longer before once more shooting my load deep within her. This time, Mrs Johnson cleaned herself alone in the bathroom. Then there was more erotic book reading.

Mr Johnson had, it appeared, a collection of some 20 “dirty” books in his library and Mrs Johnson told me that on some nights he would delight in reading out particularly “spicy” sections, while Mrs Johnson fellated him.

“Did he, er, you know, did he …” and my voice fell away.

“Did he come while I was performing on him, darling?” said Mrs Johnson, completing my question for me. “Yes, of course, he did, Roger. I suppose you’d like to try it?”

My heart leapt. I enjoyed fucking Mrs Johnson, but her fellatio was an act which sent my heart thumping into overdrive.

“Would you mind, Mrs Johnson?” I inquired, dreading that she might refuse, although pretty certain she would not.

“Of course not, darling,” she smiled, “although it will cost you a spanking. Is that OK by you?”

I nodded eagerly, just intent on having her mouth working on my hard-on again.

“Pick a title,” she said, pointing to the books arrayed on her bookcase. I selected another slim volume – 160 pages, this time – entitled “The Whip Mistress”.

“Oh, that’s a lovely book,” said Mrs Johnson, “and I know just the place for you to start.”

She then gave me a short synopsis – a school headmistress punishes the male PT teacher at yet another girls’ finishing school – then opened the book at a well-leafed section in chapter three.

I started to read the raunchy description of a naked male being flagellated by a leather-clad headmistress-turned-dominatrix and as I did, Mrs Johnson bent to her task of fellating me. As the description became more and more erotic, so her thrusting up and down on my erection became faster and faster.

I had just spoken the words “Mrs Whipwell laid the lash against his quivering buttocks for the nineteenth time when she heard Mr Pearson give out a cry of ‘Mercy, mercy, pretty please, mercy Mrs Whipwell’ …” when I could contain my excitement no longer and Mrs Johnson’s eagerly working mouth was sucking down my explosion of cum. It was possibly the most exciting orgasm I have ever enjoyed.

This excitement was followed by a spanking session which warmed my bum to a lovely glow, but didn’t really hurt. What it did do was arouse Mrs Johnson, who then made me perform cunnilingus on her again, a task I was only too pleased to carry out.

And that’s how the week-end panned out, really. Sessions of erotica readings, fellatio, cunnilingus, fucking, spanking, then more reading, more sucking, more fucking, more spanking.

By the time mummy arrived to collect me on Sunday evening, I was exhausted, my eyes sunken into deep hollows.

“Roger,” she said sharply, “are you OK, you look absolutely shattered.”

Mrs Johnson replied for me: “It’s no wonder, the way he works at all those chess puzzles for hours and hours, Dot. He should take a rest and go out with girls for a change.”

Mum laughed. “It would take wild horses to drag him away from those 64 squares, Jill.”

Mrs Johnson flashed me a “We know better, don’t we Roger?” look, then I went home.

About a month later, Mrs Johnson gave us the news that she had sold up and was moving back to London, where she had inherited an apartment in Chelsea in Mr Johnson’s will.

The day she left, Mrs Johnson popped in to mum’s for a quick cup of tea and a farewell. She brought with her a very heavy and very battered suitcase, which mum pointed out to me when I got back from school that afternoon.

“This is Mr Johnson’s collection of chess books,” said mum. “Jill thought you might like them.”

I staggered upstairs with the treasury of chess literature and plonked them on my bed. There were dozen of books – books on the opening, books on the middlegame, books on the endgame. Alekhine’s best games, Lasker’s, Botvinnink’s.

And there, neatly arranged on the bottom of the case was Mr Johnson’s collection of erotica, 19 books. The only one missing was “Petticoat Punishment”, which I assume Mrs Johnson retained for old time’s sake.

That was, of course, all 10 years ago. I’m a professional chess player now, very highly ranked – you’ve probably read about me, I made headlines when I married a while back.

I’m an excellent player, but I’m not so much of an egomaniac to believe that I’m ever going to be the world champion, although I have beaten Garry Kasparov – once.

I run a lucrative little chess magazine and I have a programme on the game which appears at some God-awful time on BBC television, although I’m told the ratings are very good for a chess programme.

And, as I say, I’m married. My wife is 50, 22 years my senior. It’s exactly the same age difference as there was between me and Mrs Johnson when she took my virginity in the most delightful way.

I guess there’s some sort of chess symmetry in that.

THE END