The Boss

Her single curtain, I saw, had been tied back to her bedsit-wall with an ethnic scarf bought from the high-street. Natasha - eleven months ago a student from the university: now a young professional, or so she'd like to call herself. She'd stripped off right away. The knickers she'd pulled down and let fall by her window-chair, they had a moderate-sized hole near the elastic waist-band.

She kneeled between my legs sucking cock; me leaning against the wall sometimes, othertimes bending down to feel her high breasts (for her pleasure?). The usual repertoire of woman, played to the usual instinct. I wondered how uncomfortable she'd be down there on a thinned carpet, shifting about. Would I see the red patches on her knees when she got up?

This whole idea of hers had been spoiled for me shortly before we'd begun. It was something she'd said; after she'd started on me; my shirt already taken half off. She'd looked up at me and tried to persuade me, the slightly nervous older man, her boss, to dare to fuck her - by saying "I am good." She'd spoiled it but I let it go on - in sex, you never know, do you, how you'll feel later.  

I Am Good - this claim thought and sometimes voiced by so very many young women (I never get any complaints - giggle). But of course the truth is that her stupidity is showing, for it is one of the things a woman can never know. It's obvious - the man next-door's 'Good' is not my 'Good'. Furthermore, do you really think that The Other Women (your rivals) aren't good? As good as you. Do you really think that? The problem with all women is that they cannot live anyone else's experience. Bridget, all those years ago, at sixteen, would have only had to free her breasts and I'd rather be with her than with you and your 'techniques'. The problem with some women is that their self-awarded badge is always humoured by man, and perhaps it really shouldn't be.