The Seduction of Lindsay Lane


It’s Sunday morning and I’m in the house alone. My daughter, Cathy, is staying over with friends after a night clubbing in town. Keith left early, off to the coast to indulge a passion for sea angling. Alan and Pete picked him up at 7:00 a.m. Before he left he brought me breakfast in bed accompanied by the never-ending wad that is the Sunday paper.

When I’m on my own like this I rarely leave the bedroom until midday. It’s my favorite room, my sanctuary; I love it in here, so light and spacious. The double aspect means the room is always bright and I can wander from one window to the other and enjoy the view that either offers. From one I can see way down the valley to the river; the other displays a panorama of forest and hills in the distance. Our new en-suite is a joy, and there’s a separate dressing room. Everything a girl requires, really.

I spend most of the morning propped up in bed skimming through the supplements. Once I’m bored with the financial pages, had my fill of political speculation, and gorged on celebrity gossip, I masturbate. We have a 32″ flat-screen at the foot of the bed, which can be cleverly lowered away when not in use. There’s a DVD player too into which I place a disc from Keith’s collection. We keep all the mucky stuff locked away in a special draw in the dressing room: my toys, the DVD’s, some VHS tapes of Keith and me we made when younger, and Polaroid’s from the Stone Age. Today I chose to watch an amateur MILF being double plugged by her husband’s two friends while he sits and watches. It makes me wish Keith had asked Alan and Pete up when they called for him this morning. He says he’d like to watch me with another guy, so I’m sure he wouldn’t mind watching me being enjoyed by two.

I’m well into it when my mobile rings. Should I ignore it? Best not, it might be important. I pause and reach over to the bedside table. I pick up. It’s Cathy calling.

When I start to talk I realize I’m slightly breathless. “Hello sweetheart. Everything okay?”

“Hi Mum. Yeah, cool. I’m at Lauren’s.”

“Will you be home for tea?”

“Not sure yet, we haven’t decided what we’ll be doing tonight. I’ll text later and let you know.

“Did you have a good night?”

“That’s why I phoned…. Listen, Mum, I was supposed to be going to the pictures with Lindsay this afternoon, but that is most definitely not going to happen now. If she comes around… tell the little sicko I don’t ever want to see her again. You are so right about that family.”

“Why, Cathy, what on earth’s the matter?”

“God, Mum–you wouldn’t believe it; Little Miss Sunday School tried hitting on me last night. I still can’t get my head round it. Lindsay Lane. Wow. To think… she actually thought I would…. Yuck. How tragic is she.”

“Oh, Darling, don’t say that, you get on so well. Perhaps you got it wrong. Were you both drunk?”

“The fuck I got it wrong. Just tell her to stay away from me. End of.”

When she’s gone I think it’s not often Cathy uses bad language in front of me, Lindsay must have pissed her off big time. I know it’s perverse but a warm delicious glee spread through my body. I think, “So, Lindsay Lane is a wannabe dyke. God, her mother would go postal if she knew her sweet little daughter had a hankering for pussy.”

Lindsay’s mother, Tricia Lane, god how I hate that woman. Why? Because she makes knowing the minutia of this village her business. Everything that happens in this sad little Stepford community of ours is of the utmost importance to her. She has a finger in every pie: a stalwart of the local amateur dramatic society; chairman of the PTA; sings in St Matthew’s choir and sits on the Parish Council. That’s just for starters; I won’t catalogue her entire social calendar. Only to mention the big one, the one that really pisses me off. She’s now secretary of The Wanton-On-The-World Golf Club. This irks me the most; it’s buried under my skin and itches like mad. She doesn’t even play golf for-fucks-sake. Whilst me, who has been a member for fifteen years, and is out on the links every Saturday, is regarded as a joke for even having put my name up. I comfort myself with the knowledge that she only got the post because she lets Council Leader Harold Smithers fuck her every Tuesday afternoon. So, of course, he put in a good word for her.

Our rivalry started in sixth form; I suppose I should be over her treachery by now, but I don’t find it easy to forgive and forget. I can be a real cow. She was Patricia Molineaux back then. Summer 1990 had been my happiest so far, but by Christmas my world had collapsed, when she stole Trevor away from me. He was my first serious boyfriend, and I was so very much in love with him. Someone so gorgeous had never looked at me before. Not only good looking, but he was smart and attentive too. When we first got together I just couldn’t believe he’d chosen me; I was tall and willowy, still wore glasses, and hadn’t yet learned how to make the best of myself. But still, in spite me being an ugly duckling, Trevor asked me out. He told me he was drawn to me because acıbadem escort I was articulate, and looked at things differently than most of the other girls my age. He said I made him laugh, that I was fun to be with and that he loved me. He soon fell out of love, though, when Tricia Molineaux fluttered her eyelashes and wiggled her arse at him.

It all blew up between us when the college drama group chose to produce the play I submitted for the competition they ran. They needed a fresh work to stage the following year. Something to do with school inspections and students producing original works of art. It was just adolescent scribbling, but I spent weeks on it and people seemed to like what I came up with. Tricia also entered a work, which obviously didn’t come up to scratch.

Back then she was pretty much the same as now, a social butterfly. She thought she could write something and everyone would fall at her feet. But I had a way with words; she was stupid to have gone up against me. When I notched up that small victory it became her mission to destroy me socially. Which wasn’t too hard, I wasn’t exactly Miss Popular. Hell hath no fury and all that. She wanted revenge, and unlike me, didn’t have the patience to serve it cold.

I have to admit, she was a beauty back then, and I can hardly blame Trevor for being enticed. A month later they were an item; still are. I see them at village functions. I smile and am polite and do the mandatory small talk, it makes life easier.

Where was I? Oh yes, DVD’s. Did I say watching women making out is another of my Sunday morning pastimes? No? Well, I often do. I have loads of real experiences with women but I still enjoy watching girl on girl footage. As well as being one hell of a turn on I also pick up tips.

I’ve made love to many women, but when it comes to Sapphic love I was a late starter. It was Keith who encouraged me, I’d never thought much about it before. It was the usual guy thing; he wanted to see me with another woman, like all blokes did. To give me a taste of what he said I was missing out on he put on a Lesbian sex DVD. It didn’t do much for me at first, but I went along. At least I was sure of a good fuck after. But after a few such sessions, with him touching me up while we watched, I started to enjoy myself. I suppose for most women lesbian sex is an acquired taste, like oysters or Guinness.

Eventually his grooming me paid off. In spite of myself, I started looking at women more and more; in the streets and pubs, appraising them, wondering what it would be like with all the different types I came across. For example, if I found myself standing behind some cute thing in the Tesco checkout queue I’d stand real close, my nipples practically poking her back. So close I could feel her body heat, smell the female animal beneath her scent. I oh-so wanted to touch beautiful strange women. Sometimes I worried about myself, worried I might be overcome with lust and do or say something rash. I do have strong sexual urges; it can be like a rodeo trying to control them.

But my days as lesbo-Tesco-stalker were numbered. A few months on and I found myself in bed with Mandy, a colleague from work. I don’t normally mix work and pleasure, but she was leaving to take up a post down south the following week. So I thought, what the hell, she isn’t going to be around much longer. With no messy complications at work to worry about I threw caution to the wind.

It was her goodbye night out with the girls from the firm where I work as an accountant. We gave her our usual send off, a night on the town, drunk and raucous. By the end of the evening I was alone with Mandy back at her flat. I can’t remember all the details but soon we were in bed together making love. That was nine years ago, I was twenty-eight at the time. Mandy lives in Cornwall now, we phone each other from time to time, and exchange emails. Every September I travel down to visit. We’re still good friends all these years on.

Since then I’ve had a fair few women, but never a girl under twenty-one. Young girls always seem a little vacuous to me. Sure they can be pretty and have marvelous toned bodies, but for me sex is not all about looks. I tell a lie, I couldn’t tongue any old dog. But to have an attractive mature woman give herself to me…well, it’s a kind of victory, a one up on them. When I make a woman cum I feel they’ve capitulated to me. I go for strong women, women who know themselves and women who think they’re straight. It makes the chase all the more exciting. Today I’m wondering if seducing a teenage girl may be even more of a challenge. I start to hope Lindsay does call in this afternoon. In fact, I’ll be very disappointed if she doesn’t.

I go back to my Rabbit, but instead of watching porn I turn the screen off and close my eyes and imagine I’m in bed with Lindsay Lane. She is the sweetest thing, but I think, do I like sweet? We’ll have to see. Afterwards, I muse that perhaps I’ll get to like silly college girls after all. It’s hard for me to reconcile the real Lindsay with the little atalar escort fantasy slut I’ve just turned her into in my mind. She’s always seemed such a mousy little thing whenever Cathy’s brought her into the kitchen. On her best behavior I suppose, mummy wouldn’t want her letting the side down.

I take a shower. Afterwards I dry myself and look in the mirror. Mr. Cavandish did a good job on my tits; they’re substantial, without being blatant; shapely and natural, not the balloons some of the older porn stars sport. I’m glad I had them done; they make me feel more like a woman. Often when I touch them I can’t believe they’re mine. I can very nearly make myself cum just by stroking them and thinking stuff. I wonder if Lindsay will like them.

I choose my clothes with care, just in case she does call. I don’t want to scare the poor girl, best play it down. She’s not a guy. I take out a short loose summery dress and lay it on the bed. I moisturize my long legs before slipping it on. As an afterthought, I take my panties back off.

Even now men tell me I’m a stunner. I find it hard to believe when I look in the mirror in the morning, but slap and the magic dust erase fine lines, hide the blemishes. I spend an hour at my dresser; it takes hard work to look this good without letting on you’ve made the effort. “Dah-dah.” I scrutinize my reflection; not bad, not bad at all, for a thirty-seven year old. Then it’s earrings and ankle chain. Finally, a dab of Le Bateleur, my favorite scent.

I conjure a prawn salad for lunch. As I eat I smile to myself and think, a taste of what’s to come. Afterwards, it’s a chapter from The Big Book of Lesbian Erotica, to while away the time and get me in the mood. At 2:30 the door bell rings and my pussy tingles. I get up and walk to the hall, before opening the front door a final look in the mirror. I’m perfect; she won’t know what hit her.

“Hi Lindsay, come in.” Already I’m excited, not just by the look of the girl, but the whole seduction thing. I haven’t seen her for a few months; she’s been away over the summer, staying with relations in France. Now I have her standing just inches from me I realize how very cute she is. I tell myself how strange it is you can know someone for years but as soon as you’ve decided on them as a sexual object they become something completely other. For a split second she stands looking at me as if wondering what to do next. I wait and watch her. She looks very young to my jaded eyes, and I realize how completely dishonorable my intentions are. I know I should be ashamed of what I’m planning, but to be completely honest, I’m not.

“Hi, Mrs. Bradley.” She smiles weakly as she steps past me, leaving a slipstream of shower-time fragrances in her wake. I inhale and take in her scent.

“Go into the lounge, Lindsay. Would you like a drink? Pepsi, tea, coffee?

“Just water, please.”

I bring Lindsay her water. She’s on the sofa, I sit down opposite on an armchair. I don’t want to spook her by getting close; not just yet.

“How’s your mother?”

“Oh, she’s fine, busy in the garden when I left.”

“I don’t know how she manages to find time for all her activities.”

Lindsay doesn’t answer, just sits and sips her drink, occasionally glancing at the door. She’s looking for Cathy, I suppose. This might be hard work, I think.

“You’ll be off to University in September, won’t you? What’s it you’re studying?”

“Psychology…. At Exeter.”

I think, what is it with young girls and psychology? If they’re hoping to get insights into their own pathetic little psyches, they won’t.

I tell her, “I did Psychology at uni; you’ll find it interesting.”

“I thought you were an accountant.”

” I am. I changed courses half-way through.”

“Oh, you said it was interesting.”

“Well, it was, just that… after doing all the statistics the course entails I realized I loved working with numbers more.”


She’s beginning to fidget, to look around. I suppose she wonders where my daughter is and why I’m having this conversation with her. I never usually say much to Cathy’s friends. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever said more than hi or goodbye to Lindsay, since she became a teenager.

Eventually she asks, “Where’s Cathy? Is she in her room? Should I go up?”

I think this is where it gets tricky, best to come straight out with it. “Cathy’s not home. She phoned earlier and asked me to talk to you about last night.” I watch her flush; it spreads upward from her neck and soon her face looks like a poached lobster. I press my advantage. “I thought I’d get your take on what happened. You’re such good friends; I don’t want to see you fall out. She sounded real mad with you.”

“Oh, god, what did she say?”

“What do you think she said?”

“I feel so stupid, I got really drunk. I’m not sure if we argued… or what. It’s all a blur.” She sips her water some more.

“Tell me what you do remember.”

“Not a lot, really. It was Clare’s 18th last week and a few of us went out aydınlı escort clubbing, a sort of belated celebration, just us girls. It was brilliant, but I can’t remember much about the end of the night. Just Cathy holding me up on the way to the taxi rank, and us both getting out of the cab at my house. But this morning she was gone.”

“She told me you tried to get it on with her. Did you?” I wait for a response, but she looks too shocked to speak, so I push it and repeat myself. “Well…did you?”

“Oh, god, no, I wouldn’t…. I mean, I didn’t. Oh, I can’t remember. When I woke up I had this feeling I’d done something really, really stupid. And this morning, when I found she’d gone, I knew something bad must have happened between us. Oh Shit. What must she think? I’m so embarrassed that she told you.” She hides her face with her hands.

“If you explain to me how you feel, I could maybe talk with Cathy for you. Perhaps she misunderstood.”

“Oh would you? I don’t want to fall out with her; I want us to still be friends.”

She leans forward, her arms folded resting on her bare knees. She looks clean and fresh, no makeup, wide eyed and hopeful now. I imagine stroking the inside of her long, smooth, cappuccino thighs, and French kissing her mouth. It’s wide and full of small white teeth. Her lips are naturally engorged, overripe. God I’d pay thousands to get my lips to look like hers. I can imagine people saying her mouth is too wide for her face, but I think it’s sensual and capable of small miracles.

She’s saying, “I like Cathy so much, we’ve hung out more these last few months, and she’s helped me with my math; It’s been a struggle keeping up. I just get these feelings for her.” As she talks strands of her baby-fine hair fall across the corners of her eyes. She brushes them aside with her fingers.

I ask her, “What kind of feelings?”

“Nothing heavy, I just feel I want to hold her…show her I care.”

She seems more relaxed. I decide to up the ante.

“Have you ever made love to a girl, Lindsay?”

“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head emphatically.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I often get feelings for my women friends, it’s only natural if you really care for someone.”

“Well…not properly… There was one time, when I was younger…I had a friend…. We used to touch sometimes.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“It felt nice, but scary.”


“Yeah, like not knowing how far we should go…and what to do. Or worrying if anyone would ever find out.”

“How far did you go?”

“Not very, just kissing and holding.”

“What about boys? You were an item with Josh Harrison a while ago, weren’t you?”

“Oh, that finished ages ago.”

“So, what do you like best: boys or girls?”

“I’ve not really done it with a girl… in the way I used to with Josh, so can’t say.”

“Would you like to go the whole way with a girl, like you did with Josh?

“I think about it a lot. Have you ever made love to another woman, Mrs. Bradley?”

“I might.”

“I once heard Mummy say to Dad, that you and Mr. Bradley were swingers.”

“No, we’re not swingers, Lindsay. Your mother has a vivid imagination. I do like women, though. They’re so nice to look at…and soft to touch. Don’t you think?”

“I think I’d better go, I shouldn’t be telling you this stuff.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not used to you being like this with me.”

“I’m showing you a different side of me. I’m a complex woman. Does it bother you?”

“Yes, it does. The way you look at me and the things you’re saying. You’re Cathy’s mum, it’s not right.”

“I’m only paying you the attention you deserve. Beautiful girls like you deserve all they can get.”

“Are you coming on to me Mrs. Bradley?”

“Would that be a bad thing?”

“To be honest, you’re making me nervous. I’ve never had a woman look at me…like you’re doing now.”

“How am I looking at you, Lindsay”

“As if you’re undressing me… like men do.”

“Would you mind if I did undress you?”

She does not answer, but I can tell she’s thinking about it. I can see her breathing’s heavier; her breasts are rising and falling beneath her top, and her nostrils flared slightly.

I realize things are in the balance, and the girl needs to be reassured, but I only have lies. “Lindsay, I know what it’s like to be young and have feelings like those you’re experiencing now. I was lucky…I had an older girlfriend who taught me not to be afraid of the urges I felt.”

“That’s how I am… afraid about how I feel. I wish I had a friend who understood and who I could talk to. You were so lucky to have one.”

“I could be your friend, Lindsay.”

“You’re an old friend of Mum and Dad, it wouldn’t seem right.”

“Let me worry about what’s right. Anyhow, I’m not that close to your mum. I won’t breathe a word about anything you tell me. I’m discreet. You can trust me totally.”

“I don’t know. I think I’d better go.”

She stands up and says, “I let Cathy borrow one of my tops, it’s probably in her room. Do you mind if I go and fetch it, before I leave?” Her tone has changed; she’s no longer the reluctant guest behaving well for her friend’s mother. She straightens her skirt, pushes back her hair. Her gaze fixes me.