Being Rose's Toyboy, Part One

Did I ever tell you that I was a toyboy once? It was 1989 when I fell into the clutches of Rose, who was in her late 40s and the owner of an English language school in London. I was 32 at the time and had signed up to do a Certificate in Further Education at a scratty polytechnic in south London, my reason being that the course, which qualified me to work as a further education lecturer, came with a mandatory, and seriously tasty, grant. 

I was drinking a coffee in a rather nice place just off Jermyn Street the day that I met Rose. I had noticed the buxom blonde lady of a certain age who sat at a nearby table who was wearing a rather too severe business suit with one of those 1980s blouses that had a large frilly bow at the neck, as if that feminine touch made up for the rest of the butch ensemble. The high heels were nice and the legs that were encased in sheer black nylon seemed to go right up to the lady's neck, and all in all she had about her that ice-maiden air that just makes me want to grab any women who has it, yank her over my knee, and teach her not to even think that way around me in the old traditional way.

She was looking at me out of the corner of her eye and caught me eyeing up her legs so she decided to treat me with one of those withering glares that foolish women occasionally use on me. I cocked my head to one side and let my tongue out of my mouth before moving it side to side in an obvious sort of muff diving way. To her credit, madam laughed out loud and after that it was plain sailing.

"So, what does a cheeky young fellow like you do for a living?" Madam enquired after I had moved over to her table.

"I'm a student - postgraduate - getting a certificate so I can ride the teachers' gravy train."

She laughed at that and asked me some more questions, occasionally crossing and uncrossing her legs, and sitting slightly sideways with her back arched so that her large breasts were made even more obvious. With her head cocked to the side she fingered the curls in her collar length hair, and every minute or so she would gently touch one of her pearl earrings. She listened intently to my words and laughed at my jokes, her mouth open to show her pearly white teeth.  It was quite an expert display and it gave me a serious hard-on in a pretty short order.

Rose, for that was her name, reached down and pulled out the two shirts that I had bought that day. She held them up to consider first one and then the other with her lips pursed.

"Do you buy all your shirts in Jermyn Street?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Wear this one on Monday," Rose said, holding a blue and white shirt aloft.

"Where are we going?"

"Nowhere, yet," Rose paused and smiled at me. "I am offering you a teaching post at my English language school, and I want you to look nice."

"For the students?"

"Them too."

Thus it came to pass that an historian who knew nothing about language tuition ended up teaching English to a wealthy collection of Arabs and Latin-Americans for a few hours a week. The rest of the time was spent in bed with Rose, but before that could happen the correct order had to be established. That was done the following Monday when I turned her over my knee and put paid to her incipient nonsense, and that is a story for the next episode.

Continued here.