Being Rose's Toyboy, Part Five

That sense of euphoria known as hubris which the gods give to men just before they pull the rug out from under their feet is a terrible thing and I had it with a vengeance. I pretty much had it made: an income from the government in the form of my student grant, subsidised accommodation in a hall of residence and a cash in hand job from Rose. Not only that but madam provided me with plenty of good sex, and she even ironed my shirts for me. What more could any man want?

As it happened I wanted a lot - everything that London at the very end of the 1980s had to offer, in fact. The Cold War was coming to an end so the city was already filling up with Eastern European pussy on the make and I made sure that I was first in line to grab some of the primer feline cuts as they became available. The language school did not have any such students, but it was chock-a-block with Latin-Americans and Asians. Rose turned a blind eye to her staff hooking up with students so long as it was done discretely. To be honest most of the male teachers were so pussy whipped that I doubted if they would ever do anything other than scuttle off home to their awfully wedded wives at the end of the day, but there were a couple of likely lads around who looked as if they knew what a penis was for.

For her part Rose knew exactly what my penis was for and she had the full use of it pretty much to order. We kept our affair a closely guarded secret, which meant that hardly any of them men, but almost all the women, knew what was going on.

We would wait until the last person had vacated the building and then scamper upstairs to Rose's little flat. I once worried that her husband just might arrive unexpectedly one day, but she quickly put my mind at rest telling me that he would be at home, tucked up with his hot chocolate in front of the television like a good little boy should.

I suppose that you are after more spanking tales, but truth be told there are none to tell. Rose was an absolute gem both in bed and out of it so I never even had cause to raise my voice to her, still less my hand. Things could have continued on that merry way into the distant future had not Xochitl from Mexico and Svetlana from Russia both entered my life within days of each other in the early summer of 1989.

From that moment on the shit was just waiting to hit the fan.