Part 1: Getting the show on the road

From the word go, when I had just turned 13, I was interested in older women. No, obsessed would be the better word for it. In those days, of course, that meant just about all women, if you disregarded the giggling, barely pubescent girls who seemed from another planet and were anyway interested in older men of at least 15.

No, it wasn't them I was interested in - it was their older sisters and mothers, and the mothers and aunts of my friends that fascinated me.

Take Dougie's mum - and my fantasy was to do just that. Dougie was my best friend in Que Que (pronounced Kwe Kwe), a town on the main train line between Bulawayo and Salisbury (now Harare) in the old Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe). I had no brothers or sisters so I loved the rough-and-tumble atmosphere of the railway family's home where Dougie and his three siblings (one younger brother, and an older brother and sister) lived in happy chaos.

And then there was Marge. Lustrous dark-brown hair, jutting bosom, shapely calves and infectious laugh, pushing 40 and probably 15 pounds overweight - my idea of the perfect woman.

Marge was of the opinion that one more mouth to be fed made little difference so I spent a lot of time there - and as she was pretty careless about dressing and undressing, she provided my first lessons in the female anatomy.

She seldom closed the door to the bedroom she shared with husband Bill, who said little and seemed to spend most of his time off in a train somewhere, so she was often to be glimpsed pulling a dress over her head, with tantalising displays of lace-edged, well-filled (sometimes bulging) white bras, sensible nylon panties, wispy halfslips. What would make my heart pound most was when she sat on the bed in bra and halfslip, a leg and panties exposed as she attached a stocking to her suspender belt.

Marge was not unaware of the effect she had on my testosterone-fevered libido, often teasing me about girls - that she was sure I would be a heartbreaker and how she wished she was 20 years younger.

"Those lucky girls, in a couple of years you'll have to fight them off, and by that time I'll be an old bag."

"You will never, ever be an old bag," I would gallantly reply. "You will be beautiful for ever."

That's the sort of talk that would get me crushed to her bosom, inhaling her fragrance. Not as stupid as I looked!

One night, Dougie and I came back late from a movie (the club of the Globe and Phoenix gold mine doubled as a cinema and movies were shown twice a week) with images of an almost-naked Brigitte Bardot still etched on our fevered brains.

Marge, it seemed had had difficulty sleeping and was wandering around the kitchen in a see-through, low-cut nightie that left nothing to the imagination. Pushing sturdily against the gossamer fabric were two big brown nipples. At one point she leaned over the table in front of me, both breasts fully exposed. Bliss!

Then she mischievously asked me to fetch another cup and I had no option but to stand up and hobble to the cupboard, trying vainly to disguise the way my cock was almost bursting through my trouser buttons. Dougie laughed himself silly, telling me to keep his mother out of my dirty thoughts.

As I sat down again, red with embarrassment, she said with a grin: "Don't you go starching those sheets tonight. I'm going to check in the morning". With a wink she went off to bed.

Sometimes she would wrestle with Dougie and me, which was a wonderful opportunity to "accidently" have a feel of those wonderful orbs. She would roll around and scream and hug us, her dress ending up around her waist, underwear in a tangle. It was great fun and she never got all tweezer-lipped if my hand strayed to those nylon panties and squeezed her bottom or if I stroked the soft flesh above the stocking top. As long as it was part of the game, it seemed I could cop all the feels I liked.

But that was it. Although it was fun, I wanted something more and I realised I wasn't going to get it from Marge. However, as I was to discover, someone other than her husband, old Bill, was.

Once a month, without fail, Dougie, siblings and mother and father, went off by train to Gwelo, the much bigger town down the line, to do the big shopping. It was more than shopping, it was sort of a ritual and they all looked forward to it. They shopped, had lunch, went to a real movie house, and returned to Hicksville on the late train.

So when I arrived at their house one morning during the school holidays to fetch the swimming costume I had left there, I knew nobody was home. I rummaged for the key on the window ledge and let myself in via the door directly to Dougie's room. I found what I was looking for and was about to leave when I heard strange noises. Surely not burglars in Que Que, that was unheard of!

The sounds were coming from the main bedroom, whose door was ajar. Tiptoeing on holiday bare feet, I tried to still my hammering heart as I moved silently up the passage and looked through the gap. Marge, clad in stockings and suspenders, was leaning over the bed, half slip around her waist, panties in a puddle at her ankles and her breasts hanging from her bra.

Standing behind her, thrusting as though his very life depended on it, one hand cupping a breast, was a grunting Ken Grey, the young stoker who lived in single quarters but paid to eat dinner with the family. The dirty sod, he had stolen one of my fantasies!

But this was so exciting for me. I had never seen people making love before and they were obviously getting a lot of enjoyment out of it, judging by the moans and panting emanating from the pair of them. Marge, in a hoarse whisper, was urging him on: "Ken, faster, faster, fuck, fuck." And Ken obliged, pumping away like the 23-year-old stud that he was.

"I'm coming, coming, yes, yes! Marge cried as he rode her to what I presumed was a climax (I wasn't that naïve) but sounded like she was being murdered. As she collapsed on the bed Ken quickly kneeled beside her and stuck his big cock right into her mouth!