A teenager (born in 1935) living in God-fearing Quebec City meets a mysterious lady and decides to take the opportunity to lose his virginity.

Note: This consensual story was initially posted on LushStories. The main male character is eighteen years old in this version, otherwise identical to the original except for very minor adjustments. There is still a nice element of social transgression. I hope you will enjoy this time-travel excursion in my hometown.

Warning: The main female character is so beautiful that seeing her may cause mental health issues and profound physical alterations in the beholder. Proceed with caution.

In the loving memory of Elizabeth Sellars (1921-2019)

If you come to Quebec City, you are bound to see priests walking around in their black soutanes, a dignified figure of moral righteousness and hidden lust. Heavens look bright above the St. Lawrence River on a Saturday afternoon with scattered clouds.

It’s early April, not the time for flocking tourists yet. People are out and about, enjoying some time off with their loved ones or attending to some errands. People are wearing greatcoats with hats as the weather is still rather cold. Chromed cars from Buick, Chevrolet, Ford, Packard, Studebaker, etc., keep passing by on Grande Allée.

Children wearing skirts are finding spots on the asphalt where to play hopscotch, while the ones wearing dungarees are out with their toy revolvers and arguing over who’s going to play the sheriff. Two cops are patrolling afoot down the avenue, smiling in the sunshine under their peaked caps. Unlike policemen from England, these cops carry guns, real guns from Smith & Wesson.

Most cars are makes from the previous decade, the decade when Adolf Hitler lost his war and the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Many cars are more recent. I personally like the 1950 Studebaker, but I don’t have the money to buy one; I don’t even have my driver’s licence yet. The most popular colours for cars are black, cream yellow and mint green. They all have white-walled tires, except for the 1951 models that sport all-black tires because of shortages due to the Korean War.

I work as a caddie at the local golf club during the warmer months; I am proudly wearing the suit I have bought with my own savings. Sadly, the cold weather compels me to wear it under a raincoat. I’m also wearing a brown fedora hat that matches my necktie, a chocolate-brown tie adorned with three diamond shapes of a pearly beige-like colour called “sand dust”. What’s more, I have carefully waxed my brown leather shoes. I’m shy with girls, but I keep hoping to find my first date, hopefully a steady date and a pretty one.

The newspapers are announcing the seventh and final game of the Stanley Cup semi-finals between the Montreal Canadiens and the Chicago Blackhawks; the game is to be played at the Montreal Forum next Tuesday. The Boston Bruins are playing the mighty Red Wings and Gordie Howe tonight. Boston leads three games to two in the best-of-seven series. Some say Detroit will bounce back; I think Boston is going to win tonight; they’re as tough as nails. I actually have a two-dollar bet running on that game with a neighbour’s son who has a pretty sister. I’m not the betting type; I did it out of bravado in order to impress the said sister, a pretty brunette about my age.

This year’s regular season has seen a big change in the hockey game—television coverage. The first television broadcast in Canada of an NHL game occurred on 11 October 1952. It was a French-language broadcast of a game between the Montreal Canadiens and the Detroit Red Wings with the Canadiens winning two to one. Billy Reay scored the winning goal during a power play in the third period. Maurice Richard picked up an assist on the Canadiens’ first goal during the second period. He picked a fight with Gordie Howe later in that same period.

I didn’t see that game since my parents don’t own a television set. We listen to all the games on the radio set in the living room, with my mother knitting, my father quietly sipping a cup of coffee and me thinking about the pretty neighbour’s daughter. We live on Père-Marquette Street, near Avenue des Braves and within walking distance of the Plaines d’Abraham.

I love going to the Plaines d’Abraham for a stroll, especially in the quiet times of the year when there are few tourists. Oftentimes, I bring a book and do some reading on a park bench, overlooked by maples, ashes and spruces under a heavenly sky with clouds galore. Sometimes, I bring some peanuts and bread crumbs for pigeons and squirrels.

I love reading a good book under the sky, with the wind caressing my clean-shaven cheeks. Quebec City is quite windy. I often need to hold my fedora as I walk down the street, especially when getting closer to St. Lawrence River.

I love Latin; there is something unfathomable in the act of getting lost in the words of long-dead writers. I especially love these writings when they involve love with beautiful girls. I’m a schoolmaster in the making. Life in the clergy doesn’t appeal to me; I like girls too much to sacrifice my love life to the Catholic Church. Thankfully, I’m my father’s only son.

I’m curious about girls. I never had a girlfriend; it’s beginning to get on my nerves since I’m already eighteen. I like watching women as they go by in their long dresses, neatly wearing their small, round hats, their seasonable coats and there small gloves that cover their lovely hands—they are so delicate!

I always take a look at their lower legs and ooh… their feet as they walk by me, usually wearing stockings and low-heel shoes. The grown women are nearly always on low-heel shoes, while girls my age wear saddle shoes or penny loafers. Shoes come in three colours—black, brown or white. The white is usually the white part of black-saddle shoes; full-white shoes are for the summer.

I love a girl’s feet. I worship them! In summertime, I make sure to stop near the pool and watch women’s feet. When I draw girls in my secret papers, they are always barefoot.

I often close my eyes and wonder what kissing a girl would feel like.

On the evening of my eighteenth birthday, as I was helping my elder sister in washing the dishes, I got a bit close and took a whiff of her hair scent. Her warm chestnut brown, with stylish twirls that ran down to her shoulders, was fascinating to watch; I loved the scent… So girly!

“Hey, cut it off!” my big sister said, pushing me away, which required some straining on her part since she was a five-foot-three-inch girl trying to push her six-foot-one-inch “little” brother.

“You should be ashamed! Get yourself a girlfriend, little brother!” she snarled.

“I’m sorry, Suzanne. I… I was just c… curious…” I blurted. She dropped the towel and left me alone with the unfinished dishwashing. I stoically accepted my punishment, alone with the curvy, white refrigerator.

That scent of hers! Vanilla, a touch of nutmeg and some fresh flowers… Gee!

I did not mean to make sexual advances to my own sister; that would be gross and amoral. I simply felt curious.

My sister won’t introduce me to her friends. They’re all three or four years my senior. She’s already a young woman; she got a job only two months ago, working for the police Records & Identification bureau at the city hall. She still lives with us since she has yet to meet the right guy; the lad she went to the prom with turned out a sneaky alligator. She still got time; she’s turning twenty next June.

To my sister’s friends, I’m just a kid they won’t date. Yet, one of them seems to like me; her blue eyes often linger a split-second longer on me whenever we interact, however briefly. She has chestnut hair, very much like my sister’s and I bet she smells just as fresh and dandy, with the small difference that she is not my sister.

Dating a younger fellow is just something a respectable girl won’t do. I know, I know, I should pick some high-school girl and ask her for a date, but why not date an older girl? I think this is just another one of those stupid social customs that get in the way of love.

Right now, I’m sitting on a park bench on that splendid Saturday afternoon; the sky offers gorgeous cloudscapes with a light breeze, although it’s a bit chilly. There are still remnants of snow under the shadows, under thickets of trees, in the backyards, etc. Winter lingers long in Quebec City.

At the dead centre of the park stands a large equestrian statue of Joan of Arc. During summer, that park is lush with colourful flowers and bustling with tourists.

“Hello, nice lad! May I sit on that bench? The other seats seem to be taken…”

My head turns toward that soprano voice from heaven, only to be transfixed from beholding the most attractive woman I’ve ever seen!

She’s wearing a small felt hat, of a sophisticated golden brown, over cascades of raven hair, medium in length, encasing the face of a femme fatale, with soft features that are too mature to belong to a teenage girl, an effect that is reinforced by her make-up and the typical dark rouge she’s wearing. Her neatly defined eyebrows strike me as enhancing the richness of her medium-fair complexion. These dark eyebrows make me wonder whether she has an equally neat carpet of darkness down between her legs; I feel my manhood come alive.

There’s a vacant bench right beside mine.

I stand up, drop my book, and blurt some nonsensical words as I try to say I don’t quite understand her English.

She then smiles—a killer smile to die for—and this time, she greets me in good French with a thick accent, calling me “beau jeune homme” (handsome lad).

With her white-gloved hand, she picks up my book; as she bends over, even though she’s wearing a burgundy greatcoat, I can’t help but look at her curves and try to imagine how gorgeous her nakedness must be. She isn’t tall; I think she’s a bit shorter than my sister, perhaps five-one or five-two.

She gracefully hands me my book as we sit together. I can’t move or speak. My eyes are lost in her black hair; I’m too shy to look into her eyes, so my gaze gets busy in the sleek shadows of her hair—I love a dark-haired woman. I just so strongly love them!

“You read Vergil? In Latin? That’s interesting…” she says, in her thickly accented French that has a definite British swing to it. She seems quite amused by my gaping expression. I’m trying to guess her age; she’s definitely at least twenty-five years old. Her features are pristine and heavenly soft, but they display the maturity of a young woman whose teenage days are well behind her.

She introduces herself…

“Je suis, Elizabeth. Et vous, comment, vous, appellez-vous?” (I am Elizabeth. And you, sir, what is your name?)

I summon some of my senses back and return the favour by answering in English, thickly accented with my Canadian French…

“I am, Gaston. Uh, enchanté… Happy getting to know, uh, you… That is, I say, lovely feet, uh, I mean, nice weather today, uh, gentle breeze and all… Yes, I’m Gast…”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! …”

She laughs, and really laughs, but not in a mocking way; she seems to find my state of confusion quite entertaining to watch. By now, she’s probably aware of how young I am, and if she does, then my suit is cold and my game is up. There’s no way such a glamorous woman would get romantically involved with a boy who just turned eighteen.

Then, she positively electrifies my entire being by resting her little hand on my forearm. In that simple gesture, this woman from the United Kingdom just crossed the ocean of social distance and conventions that were separating us. From the way she looks and smiles at me, I feel that what seems impossible is suddenly entering the realm of possibilities.

“Oh, Gaston…” she whispers, her face getting unseasonably close to mine, “you must not think that I’m making fun of you; it’s just that… how can I say it? It’s just that your genuine look of innocence, and your youth, ooh, your youth! It’s all so refreshing, as opposed to those suitors who keep sending me cards and flowers, invitations to fancy restaurants, etc. They’re all alike! All they think of is only one thing! And even a youngster like you knows what it is they want.”

There is some weird heat and passion in the way she says, “Your youth.” She speaks about my teenage youth as if it were some magic talisman that was the key to the most sacred of all treasures.

“Are… Aren’t you married? Nice ring by the way…” I ask, hesitatingly.

“Ha! Ha! Ha! No, I’ve been too busy these last fifteen years to get married. I’m an actress; yes, but let it be our secret, just between you and me… I’m a film actress. Oh, you never saw me in motion pictures here, for I only play in British B-movies, but I love to play! (She gives me another killer smile; her gloved hand is still resting on the sleeve of my raincoat.) This ring… this is only a shield; something I wear to avoid being constantly harassed by would-be lovers. I can handle myself, but they get quite annoying at times. By the way, how old are you, my dear lad?”

Her tone is getting surprisingly familiar and her dark, sparkly eyes never leave mine while her dainty hand stays on my forearm. Again, there’s that same mystic passion in her voice when she says, “My dear lad”.

“Well, Ma’am, you, you see how tall I am, and I… I…” I hesitate, in great fear of seeing her lose her interest in me upon learning how young I am. I love the sight and feel of her as she looks intensely into my eyes, her pristine face inches from mine as her hand lingers on my forearm.

“Come on, handsome!” she says with a playful smile, her eyes all lighted up as if she were a little girl entering a candy store. “Come on, don’t be shy! Here, Gaston, let me tell you a little secret about your Elizabeth…”

She then positively terrifies me as her mouth softly reaches close to me and I find myself hoping and fearing that she’s going to kiss me and smear her rouge on my lips, but she’s only reaching for my ear, and then she whispers these words, very softly, her sensual voice like a gentle wind of May caressing a field of dandelions…

“I’m almost thirty-two years old, and I love a well-built teenage lad! You… You may hold my hands, Gaston; I’d like this very much…”

I do just that. With my trembling hands, I hold her white-gloved hands and tenderly look into her eyes. She’s got me. Right from this moment on, I become obsessed with her, my black-magic enchantress!

I feel many gazes on us. We are not alone in the park and people are noticing how inappropriately this grown-up woman is behaving with me. My age is quite apparent in spite of my suit and hat and raincoat. Some of these people know me by sight; they’ve seen me in church on Sunday.

I don’t care what others think. This moment I’m sharing with her is priceless. It is pure sensuality and freedom between two descendants of Adam and Eve.

Everything about her is glamorous, from the brightness of her complexion to the golden brooch adorning her dark wine-red coat, a long coat that finishes low enough to cover the upper third of her lower legs; the lower two-thirds are dark silk from heaven that I long to touch—stockings that display her dainty ankles as my gaze voraciously falls on and devours her small feet encased in her low-heel shoes, shoes as black as the spell she just cast on me.

These shoes… they tease me with the all-important desire—I must see and touch her lovely little feet! Holding her feet would mean holding her entire feminine being.

“Your hands… They’re… very lovely… Ma’am, this is…”

“Call me Elizabeth. Please, do. You have no idea how precious this moment is for me; you really have no idea…”

She suddenly has longing eyes. Some people are nearby and keep staring at us as we sit holding hands, and most notably, there’s a priest looking at us with a scandalised expression. I know he’s just about to scold her and give me an annoying sermon.

Priests are usually quite arrogant and sententious. Ignoring him will not drive him off. I realise with alarm that I forgot that this is Quebec City, a God-fearing, Catholic city, and this is not New York City or Los Angeles. Normally, I would be terrified in front of the priest and his powerful authority, but I must not disappoint her! I must be a man and stand my ground!

He’s already approaching us and about to open his big yapper. I must do something, and do it quickly. I scan the place and find that there is no policeman in sight. That priest is a small man; if I just walk and leave, he’ll be unable to stop me.

I get up and as I do so, that bastard imposes his hand on my arm, while Elizabeth stands up by my side.

“Where do you think you’re going, my son?” the little man says, using the authoritarian tone of a man used to being listened to and obeyed without question. These priests are such little tyrants!

Something snaps within me. I’ve had enough of them and their sermons! They expect me to be a good man and abstain from any sexual activity until I get married, probably in several years from now. I want to enjoy life now! You only get to live this life once. I want to make it count. I want this lady to take me to her hotel room; there’s no Canadian law against it and no one is going to stop me!

I do not answer and look at that little priest dead in the eyes with an expression that clearly says, “Mind your own business, daddy-o!” As I do so, I take my glamorous companion by the hand and lead her away from the small crowd of staring people. I see that everybody is clearly in shock, especially the priest, who stays alone in his black gown near the now-empty bench.

People are in shock. No one ever defies a priest. I’m lucky that no cops are nearby. They would take me to the station and right to my parents from there, and my father would then beat me up.

I can’t believe I’ve done what I just did. This is an act of open rebellion!

That little man wearing his priest’s gown… He was staring at Elizabeth and rather staring down at her bosom. He doesn’t follow us; I overhear him; he’s asking the onlookers if anyone among them knows me. The little rat! He’ll give them a sermon and report me to my parents, and to the college, yet he’s secretly lusting over Elizabeth and jealous.

Once we’re some distance away from the park and behind some leafless maple trees, walking on an avenue that leads to Grande Allée, I stop and want to say something, but she laughs again…

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ohh, Gaston… That priest… Did you see his face when he saw how tall you are? Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! … Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ooh, Gaston, you’re turning me into a giggling girl! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! …”

“Well, Elizabeth, I think he’s jealous. Yes, I think that deep down, he would love to be holding hands with you and be the tall one. Life isn’t easy at school for a short fellow. That’s probably why he became a priest; now he’s got some power and he can think he’s important.”

“Yes, I know. Most girls like a tall guy. I like a tall lad; yes, a tall lad…”

She speaks these last words with longing and passion in her eyes as she looks up straight into me. Her eyes are a warm brown. She’s of a deliciously average height, yes, she must be five feet two inches tall. I become bolder and my eyes start wandering a bit south on her bosom. I see she has breasts, breasts of average size that must be wonderful to see and touch, but the thick fabric of her burgundy coat shrouds her anatomy in tantalizing mystery.

I notice she’s blushing and quietly looking down. This is quite a change in her; it seems that I’m now the one in charge. I feel that this is what she’s expecting of me. I don’t want to disappoint her. I’m hand-shaking nervous, but I refuse to falter.

“Gaston,” she says as her hand rests on my upper arm, “you make me feel like I’m a teenager again! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! So, where are you taking me now? Let’s spend the afternoon between ourselves! Let me be your date!” she says with an enthusiastic giggle, sounding remarkably like a girl of my own years.

“Elizabeth, I’d love to take you to a malt shop and share a milkshake with you, but you have no idea what life is like here. That priest, he’s going to hail policemen and send them after me! They’ll be looking for me… looking for us. They’ll find people who know me and they’ll call my parents… The police may even detain you! They sometimes do that to lone women.”

“The police detaining me? How exciting! Like in a crime movie… Oh, I’m so bored!”

I don’t understand why she doesn’t take the danger she’s in more seriously. I hold her hands very tenderly, loving the fact that we are on a quiet avenue, and I add… “I do want to be your date, sweet Elizabeth. Eliza, do you want to be my first girl?”

“Yes, yes!” she says, enthusiastically, giving me once again that look of a girl entering a candy store. Taken by a sudden impulse, she reaches forward, stands on her toes and takes me by surprise.

She kisses me.

The rush! Her rouged lips are a timeless wine, beyond words. Luckily, no one’s around on that quiet avenue. We must get away! We must get away before that little priest finds policemen who will quickly locate us if we stay here. She’s in positive danger of being detained.

Making a superhuman effort, I push Eliza away, very gently. She looks at me with alarm in her sparkly eyes.

“We must get away, Eliza. Right away! If we want to enjoy our time together, we must get somewhere quiet where no one will come bothering us.”

“All right, handsome lad… Let’s hail a taxi and go to my hotel room,” she replies with a passionate look in her brown eyes.

I take her arm in mine, and I lead her as we walk further and reach Grande Allée, where we ignore the people staring at us as she leans into me; she doesn’t quite understand the situation; she has no idea that people here are really like sheep living under Catholic authority.

A teenage lad dating a glamorous woman is quite a sight, even in a large American city such as New York or Detroit, but here in Quebec City, it is a capital sin, something unspeakably immoral! Then, I remember that she’s British and most certainly Protestant; this makes my case far worse! And she’s positively leaning into me as we walk down Grande-Allée.

Nonetheless, I’m as happy as a king to be with her and I keep telling her she’s a lovely girl. She giggles every time I say this.

I don’t mind the people. I try to stay cool and think. We cross Grande-Allée and I lead her down Avenue de Bourlamaque, which runs northward and parallel to Cartier Avenue, albeit with much fewer people to bother us.

I know where we’re going. I’m taking her to the intersection between Boulevard Saint-Cyrille and Cartier Avenue. There’s always a cab or two parked at the Shell gas station and waiting for customers.

Upon reaching Boulevard Saint-Cyrille, we turn right. Now, there are only a hundred yards left to walk; there are two black cabs parked there. I suddenly tense up; two patrolling cops are walking on the opposite side of the boulevard; their gaze is naturally attracted to my companion.

I overhear them say, “Lucky fellow.” They are a bit too far to notice how young I am, and I’m wearing my fedora hat over my raincoat while Elizabeth looks several years younger than her age; from a distance, we look pretty much like a normal couple because I’m so tall. These cops probably assumed that I was her husband, and this is why they didn’t come to take a closer look.

As I feel her small frame so close against me, I am filled with a strong sense of elation and weirdness. Is she in love with me?

At last, we reach those cabs. Then comes a familiar voice… This is my one fear; someone I know, a relative…

“Heille, Gaston! Qu’esse tu fais ‘ec s’te femme-là? S’pas correct! S’pas correct pantoute!” (Hey, Gaston! What on earth are you doing with this broad? It ain’t right! It ain’t right at all!)

It’s Henri, my pesky uncle. I know him from the peculiar style of his homburg hat and the colour of his moss-green raincoat. Thankfully, he stands on the opposite side of the avenue and cars are passing—I silently thank the black De Soto that quietly drives by opposite to a water-green Ford, a very recent 1952 model with whitewall tires.

Before Uncle Henri is able to reach us, Elizabeth hails one of the taxis that are parked at that Shell gas station and we are off, leaving my uncle staring at us from the competing Esso gas station on the opposite side of Cartier Avenue.

Now, my parents are going to know. I’m in deep trouble!

Oblivious to the seriousness of my situation, she giggles and laughs while leaning on me the whole way to Château Frontenac, where she’s obviously staying; a most fitting place for such a glamorous lady. She tells me she will be moving to a less expensive hotel on Monday, kissing me on the cheek and saying that B-movie actresses have to play a lot to earn a decent living. She could be earning more if she accepted to pose in the nude or to make special “adult” movies, but she doesn’t want to debase herself like that.

“I only allow a true gentleman to see my human flaws. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! By the way, I’m Scottish.”

“Human flaws, you?! You look so radiantly beautiful… You will certainly live to be a hundred!”

“You think so? You think I’ll live old enough to see the year… 2021? Well, even then, I don’t think any teenager will want to be alone with me in a room by then. Spring is in the air. Let it be our Spring, young lover!”

The hall is lavish. I’ve never been in Château Frontenac. I see one man reading a newspaper; he’s wearing a tuxedo; he immediately notices my lovely companion. Dressed as she is in her stylish long coat, she looks like she belongs here. I look acceptably well dressed, as I’m wearing my best suit—a light-brown tweed suit of a tall cut offering ample size around the chest; it’s swell-looking and gives me comfortable space for moving around. I take off my raincoat and carry it on my left arm as I proudly walk with her at my other arm.

“I’ll… I think I need to phone my folks. It’s just that I don’t want my mother to worry.”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Then, tell your mother the truth. Tell her you’re at the Château Frontenac with a Scottish movie actress! Tell her! She won’t believe you! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! She’ll think you want to run off in the forest with some teenage girl! We’ll do this tomorrow if you want!”

She speaks the last sentence with so much fire and passion in her eyes that I know with positive certainty that she would immensely enjoy being alone with me in the woods. My sweet Eliza is perhaps Scottish, but she’s every bit as hot-blooded as an Andalusian girl, and she has the raven hair to fit.

There are several booths, all majestically dark with lacquered wood panels. I unhook the black phone and I’m about to slide a nickel and turn the dial to call home, but I change my mind.

“Eliza, my uncle saw us together, and when he tells my parents about us, I guarantee you that they’ll call the police. I’m a minor and they can force me to go back home, and they can accuse you of… of perhaps kidnapping; I’m only eighteen and the law is a bit fuzzy there; I need to be twenty-one to vote so I must be a minor. Eliza, we need to…”

“Eighteen! You’re only eighteen! Ooohh…” she ejaculates, looking at me with transfixed eyes and moving right into me, caressing my hair and cheek as if I were some holy relic and making my fedora fall in the process.

We’re in the phone booth and there’s no one nearby. She keeps staring into me like a girl adoring some divinity. Her lips move smoothly toward me, offering an unreal sight with dark rouge. Time stops, like in a dream.

We kiss. I can’t realise that this is really happening, but I hold her in my arms as she pushes herself on her toes with her face upwards to reach me as I stoop down and kiss her back while holding her. I feel the gentle tip of her tongue slide on my lips, then our tongues very gently jockey together. It’s wonderful; I can taste her rouge smearing my lips as we keep kissing. I act exactly as if I was kissing a girl my own age.

I gently push her against the booth wall while very tenderly stroking her wonderful hair—I wanted so much to touch these midnight-black strands that cascade down so gracefully! Her black waves of silk give her the neck and shoulders of a true femme fatale. She tightly wraps her arms around me and keeps smooching me as if her life depended on how much passion she could display. I feel I’m the luckiest lad in Quebec City.

Her hair is loose and wavy as I remove her small hat of felt to get a better view and touch… She softly breathes into my kissing mouth as I run my hand in her hair and take a nice whiff of her inebriating scent. My elder sister is just a kid in comparison. There are no words to describe how wonderful her perfume really is. A midsummer flowery dream in Andalusia, perhaps; or a midsummer night’s dream in Scotland.

My other hand falls on her hip; I feel the fullness of her womanly curves and I become totally aroused. I want to go all the way with her! If there wasn’t any risk of someone coming by, I would tuck her skirt up and mount her right in that phone booth!

“He’s eighteen! Only a teen… yet so tall, so strong!” she whispers between kisses.

“Ooohh, kiss me… Kiss me, handsome lad! I’m melting in your arms! Melting, like a giggling teenage girl… Let’s take the elevator! Let’s go to my room… I want to be your girl! Please, tell me I’m a nice girl! I love it so much when you call me your girl!”

I’m so hard between my legs that walking is somewhat awkward. Her seasoned eyes notice this and she giggles like a crazy schoolgirl. Calling her a lovely girl comes naturally, although she is much more than just pretty. She is radiantly beautiful, beautiful in a way no teenage girl could ever be.

She tells me that I’m just as neat and classy as the teen lads were back in her own days, before the war in Europe. She talks as if her teenage years were fifteen or twenty years in her past, but she looks so fresh and youthful that I have a hard time remembering that she is actually older than twenty-five.

She told me her age in the park. She’s nearly twice my age and this drives me nuts! I can and I will mount her. I’m as hard as the centaur Nessus getting ready to give Dejanira the rough ride that Hercules was already giving her in spades.

That elevator! Was it ever going to reach the ninth floor? We keep kissing and making out. I start to feel and grope her breasts through her coat, with my right hand meeting the fancy brooch she’s wearing.

I think she’s going to balk or slap me or something, but she does nothing of the kind; she’s breathing heavily and whispers “Ooh! Yes! Yes! Touch me… touch me, my young buck! Make me your girl! Oh, yes… Your teenage girl, once again… Mmhh… Oh, it’s soo good! Oohh, yes… I like this very much… You have no idea…”

She nervously giggles and fumbles for her keys when we reach her room. I can’t believe this is happening! I have a hunch that the staff members in Château Frontenac have seen much stranger things than a teenage lad with a thirty-year-old woman. There are stories of lady ghosts wandering the hallways.

A liveried groom passes and hardly notices us. Indeed, he’s used to seeing such play.

I’m up in heaven, right up there where the priests say the temptations of the flesh lead to Hell. They would do better if they got themselves girls to fuck; I suddenly picture my sister, so beautiful with her chestnut hair and her perky breasts; I picture her naked in the arms of two priests, also naked, and the middle-aged men each take their turns inside her; they give her heaven and she moans like hell. The vision makes me full of lust. Such a forbidden transgression!

As she unlocks her door to room 907, I feel that walking that threshold leads to somewhere I don’t know; somewhere I may not be ready for. I suddenly grow afraid; afraid of the unknown. Her white-gloved hand takes my hand; her hand is so dainty, so girly! With such delicate hands, she’s bound to have gorgeous feet!

“Oh, Ma’am!”

“Call me Miss!” she says, kissing me and wrapping me in her arms after locking the door behind us and taking off her greatcoat. We are alone now; perfectly alone. The world is outside that door. We’re in our own heaven.

“Oh, my sweet little Miss!” I exclaim as I drop my raincoat and cast my hat down to the floor.

“Oh, yes, yes, I’m your little Miss! You can do anything you want with me; I hope you won’t mind a little blood. I’m right at the end of, you know, this time of my month…”

She keeps staring into me with adoring eyes. I feel I can indeed do anything I want with her. Where do I begin?

“I… I want to see your feet! I want to touch and kiss them! I’ve been wanting this since I first saw you! Oh, please, Miss, let me remove your shoes…”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! I’ll be damned! Our young champion is a lady’s feet lover! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Well, yes, you’re free to touch me there… It’s fine, as long as you shag me good after. I want to feel your hands and mouth everywhere on me!”

“Now, girl, lay down on the rug!” I say with a commanding tone, remembering that she likes being led. This has a remarkable effect on her…

“Yes, my Lord and Master! Elizabeth lies down for you! What else do you want your girl to do for you?”

“Take off your shoes and remove your stockings, now!”

“Yes, yes, right away… Call me a girl! Make me feel like a girl in your arms!”

Oh, God! As I feverishly help her in taking off her black stockings, her cute little feet fill my nostrils with their girly salt and sweat; their daintiness makes me hungrier for them as I keep touching them; my entire being is absorbed in learning their tender geography. Her small feet summarise the grace and beauty of her entire person. I am as hard as a bull, even harder than I can get whenever I see my sister in her pajamas and watch her feet.

I suck Eliza’s tiny toes and my caressing hands get acquainted with the treasures of her daintiness; there’s nothing like the feel of her firm softness in my hands. Her feet are delightfully small. Her shoes must be number five at the very most.

“I wear number three in UK; I think this is number five for you over here… Mmhh… Ooohh, I love how you kiss and massage my tired feet; your hands… Mmmh, so manly! Oooh, I’m so happy to be your girl!”

When I press her delicate soles against my face, I get very hard and swollen down there, with a painful push against my tweed trousers while I keep worshipping her feet with religious zeal; I lick them and drink their silky daintiness, I go on a pilgrimage from her ankles to the tenderness of her soles, where she turns out ticklish, and I make several kissing stops on the rosy roundness of her heels.

Suddenly, she’s kneeling and her head moves to my lap. I suddenly realise that she’s unzipping my trousers. No, she’s not going to…!

Yes, she is!

Before I realise what’s happening, she has me leaning down on the rug and she looks at me with her adoring eyes as she takes hold of my erect dick and engulfs it in her loving mouth…

“Oh, God!” I blurt out as my hands fall on her hair and begin caressing her bobbing head as she pleasures me with her entire self summed up in her tongue and the warm cocoon of her mouth; she runs my full length, up and down, with her sealed lips, where the rouge is now faded from our prolonged kissing.

I’m hard and swollen, and I realise that I won’t last much longer. She’s licking my precum as she giggles and smiles at me. What do I want the most right now? I spot a side table of dark wood against the flower-patterned wall. I make my decision.

I stop her bobbing action and say…

“Now, girl! Now, girl!”

She says nothing and lets me freely move her around. I get up and grab her. I move her to the side table, where I toss down the glittering baubles to clear it.

With conquering hands, I lift her up and she yelps with surprised delight as I make her sit on the cleared table. Then, I urgently tuck her dress up her hips, baring her alluring thighs. I’m now picturing myself as a young hotel groom who forcefully seduces an older woman in a sudden reversal of our positions; she is now the servant. This fantasy makes me wicked hard.

“Oooh, yes! Yes! Take me! Take me, oooh, my young buck!” she bellows as I ragingly rips her panties from under her dress. My dick is equally raging and pointing right at her. She’s looking down at it with what looks like religious fervour. She’s deeply religious, but in a different way.

I try to enter her, but there, my lack of experience catches up with me. I suddenly feel her dainty hand on it, and before I know what’s happening, I feel gripped by a warm, tight glove. I’m inside her! She just guided me inside her with her hand.

“Come on, my young buck! Shag me, shag me hard and deep. Go hard at it! Overwhelm your teen girl! Ooh, yes! Like this! Oohh… ooh, oohh…” she bellows as she tightly wraps her legs around me as I begin to bang her against the wall, taking hold of her firm buttocks as she bounces on the side table.

I keep pounding her with unfathomable delight. This is good beyond words.

In my confused senses, in the middle of this life-altering excitement, I see she’s wearing a peculiar tank top that features a black fishnet pattern over a cream-yellow field; it perfectly fits with her black skirt and white blouse. Everything about her is so glamorous!

I’m painfully, delightfully hard as I keep bucking her on that side table with her back against the wall and she keeps moaning loud with her legs tightly wrapped around me.

She has completely lost it and keeps moaning and uttering all sorts of praise for my young prowess while I keep banging her against that wall… Again! Again! And again! Ohhh! This is so good!

“Oh yes! Ooh… Oohh… Ooohhh… My, young, buck… He’s, only, a teen… Oohh… So young! So young… Ooohh… Oohh… But he’s so strong! So strong… Oooh yes! Keep shagging me! Oohh… Ooh… Oohh… Ooohhh…”

I love the way her black hair is shaking and waving in rhythm with my strokes. I grunt like a beast as I give her all I have! She wants my youth? I let her have it in spades!

Her breasts are too heavily guarded by that fishnet-patterned tank top over her snow-white blouse, but I’m raging and dying to see and touch them. I must see and touch her boobs!

With the fierce hands of a pirate having his way with a female passenger, I violently tuck all her clothes up her torso at once; she yelps and frantically covers my neck with kisses as I push everything up—the tank top and the blouse together. My hands find her bra and then, in a fit of unbridled fury, I tuck it all the way up; I utter an animalistic grunt of triumph as I catch a glimpse of her brownish nipples and the paleness of her perky boobs that bounce down into my confused view as I violently push her bra up against the chaos of her tucked-up clothes.

We keep copulating like savages while I delightfully cup her breasts in all this confused excitement. The delicate push of her nipples under my palms spurs me above and beyond the edge. I’m smoked! I grab her butt for my final strokes.

She keeps covering me with kisses and tightly wraps herself around me with arms and legs as I keep savagely banging her against that wall with her buttocks ever bouncing on that creaking side table. She’s filling the room with high-pitched whimpers and keeps calling me her young buck.

I kiss her sweaty neck and bury my face in the waving forest of her hair; I get lost in that forest of black-magic scent and I scream my bliss against her neck as I unload my semen in forceful bursts while she explodes with a loud moan…

“Aaahhh… Yes! My young buck…”

My hands rest on her waist as we remain there for a while, panting and kissing while I’m still inside her.

It takes me a while to remember that her breasts are uncovered; when I do remember, I move my hand up and cup her left breast, feeling the tab of her nipple against my palm as her mound softly yields under my touch. She’s my very first girl!

“Ooohh, young lad! I… I love your touch… You may do this to me anytime you want to…” she says between burning kisses, still panting and catching her breath.

“You’re… You’re a sweet, a sweet and wonderful girl, Eliza! I greatly enjoyed being… inside you… You know, you’re my very first girl…” I reply while kissing and breathing against her neck, still lost in the blackness of her Scottish hair.

I slowly realise how serious my situation is. My parents are bound to call the police if they don’t get news from me soon.

“Eliza, we need to pack up and leave. I tell you, my parents are going to call the police and cause us serious trouble; you may get the bad rap and get accused of kidnapping me. They will start checking all the hotels and you’re quite conspicuous. We better go now!”

“Ooohh! This is so exciting! Like a crime movie!” she exclaims as she puts her bra back on and readjusts her clothes.

“We must hurry, I tell you. I’ll call my mother and I’ll make up a story, but believe me, you look so… so glamorous that the Château Frontenac is one of the first hotels they’ll check.”

“I think you’re right, but at any rate, leaving in such a hurry is very much exciting! There’s a phone over there. You can directly call your parents from there. You also need to clean yourself up; there’s a bit of my blood on your… on your… Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! I’ll clean myself up too—you had a lot to fill me up with!”

She smiles and looks at me with a mischievous expression as she speaks, before adding: “Then, I’ll get changed and off we go! Do you like Italian food?”

TO BE CONTINUED.