Generation Game - Secret Narrative - ebook

A series of five linked erotic short stories. Follow sixty-something university lecturer, Sylvia Kent as she explores age-gap sex, and her new-found desire for steamy encounters with strangers, students, and colleagues. This story is published in a series of short provocative erotica by Secret Narrative, and is available as separate titles starting with:Hot HouseAnd continuing in:Bishop’s PurpleLethal LessonDissolving TimeFlying ColoursWarning: Erotic content unsuitable for all readers under the age of 18. Contains themes that some readers will find offensive.

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Generation Game

Five Linked Erotic Short Stories


Secret Narrative

Generation Game

Five Linked Erotic Short Stories

Copyright, Secret Narrative, 2015

All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination, and any similarity to any persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The opinions expressed are the author’s own and are not representative of the opinions of the publisher or distributors.

Cover image, ©Sakkmesterke|

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This book contains strong language and sexually explicit content from the start, including the sample, which some readers will find offensive.

Unsuitable for persons under the age of 18.

Generation Game by Secret Narrative


One: Hot House

Two: Bishop’s Purple

Three: Lethal Lesson

Four: Dissolving Time

Five: Flying Colours

One: Hot House

It’s decaying. All decaying. I wonder in which of my decades I lost sight of my magnetism. Not in my forties. I spent the first week of my fourth decade in Amsterdam. Sex shows, peep shows, coffee shops and unlimited sex with my then partner. Addicted to each other and addicted to sex, we made the most of our mutual mojo in a long 69 of insatiable gobbling. When I turned fifty, he left me for a younger, blonder version of my forty-year-old self.

I wasn’t alone for long. Bill arrived, older than I was by ten years, with a love of submission and domination games. He nurtured my carnality throughout my fifties with a series of sex-games, voyeurism, orgies and an almost over-indulgence of all things sex-related. He never suffered erectile dysfunction and I took advantage by riding him relentlessly. Just after my sixtieth birthday, we found out about his weak heart when he suffered a massive coronary at the point of orgasm and died during the ride. He left his body to science so he’s still an education.

And now, for the first time, I don’t recognise the woman I see in my room of mirrors. I wonder if I should have a face-lift, as I experimentally smooth the skin under my chin. I pull backwards and upwards with both hands, creating a stretched, not altogether attractive reflection. My lips are still full… All the better to eat you with. I make an appointment with a Harley Street surgeon, and take on a private teaching job to help pay his bill.

Simon Conrad is an English Literature ‘A’ Level resit. His father is rich and has an ego the size of St Paul’s Cathedral. I am invisible in his presence. The knowledge that at one time he would have served at my feet annoys me more than it should. But his son is different. I can smell him, he reminds me of my classroom years, when teenage crushes pervaded the atmosphere. The family live in Hertfordshire, Laura Conrad is glamorous and Simon has inherited her good looks. My rules include the caveat that an adult is always in the home at the same time as my student and me; it protects us all from inconvenient issues.

The boy needs four ‘A’ grades to be accepted by his first choice college. I have been hired to hot-house him and make sure he achieves his full potential. That’s the easy part. It’s my private hot house I’m worried about, it seems to burn in his presence and warms my solitary bed at night.

I’ve never been particularly interested in younger men, but then, I’ve never been sixty-two before. Everyone seems younger these days. To me, anyway. That’s how it feels. That’s how I feel.

I have a two-week period of daily tutorials to fill with teaching and learning, the money will be useful, I’m seriously considering the surgeon’s knife. Today, we are studying The God of Small Things.I find the text stimulating but Simon seems bored. A shame. Never mind, I’ll teach him to approach literature with passion, teach him to produce the perceptive flash that the examiner is looking for. I will school him to ‘A*’. It’s my calling. He must not fail me. Or himself.

We work in Laura’s study, side by side at her desk. Our books are open in front of us in a scattered arc. I walk him through past papers, one question at a time and feel the heat from his thigh close to mine. My perfume sticks in his nostrils. I can tell. In England, our main examination series are set in May/June. It’s April, quite cool, but the promise of summer beckons and in reply I open another button of my white blouse, exposing flesh that hasn’t been seen in public for a year, or more. He’s noticed, I can tell, and I’m impressed by his reserve.

“See you tomorrow, Simon. Please prepare an answer to the Section B question we discussed today. We’ll go through it together during tutorial.”

Seeing me out, his mother asks about his progress, I’ve already refastened the button. She knows nothing about me.


“I thought you’d like to work in here today.” Laura leads me through to the conservatory. “Unless you think it might be too hot?” She eyes the severe cut of my black suit.

“No, we’ll be all right. If it gets too bright, we’ll adjust the blinds.”

“Of course.” She offers the usual selection of drinks which I, as always, refuse. I hate using the bathroom in other people’s houses.

Simon looks uncomfortable in the bright room and I guess he hasn’t been up long. He has the typical appearance of a newly risen youth. We tackle Christina Rossetti and in the simmering hothouse, with Goblin Market (don’t eat the fruit), I have to accept Laura’s offer of tea. Refreshing, even on a warm day. Perhaps that’s an age thing too. Is it only the elderly who drink tea, no matter what time of day? We’re making progress with elements of the Gothic when his mother interrupts again.

“I’m so sorry, Sylvia. I have to go out. My friend is delayed at work and can’t collect her child from school. I’ll have to go and I’ll have to wait until she gets back. Charlotte is too young to leave alone. I don’t want to bring her back here; it will be too disruptive for you and Simon.”

“As it’s an emergency,” I say, and feel Simon’s slight shift in mood, which lightens a little more when we hear her leave.

“I need to take a break, Simon. Where’s the bathroom?” I have to forget my own rule.

He points the way upstairs. “Don’t you have a toilet on this floor?”

“Yes, but you said you needed the bathroom.” Ah, the veracity of youth. I laugh and go upstairs anyway.

My skirt is too tight to roll up so I have to undo it to pee. I leave it at my ankles and adjust my stockings. I never wear tights, they are alien to me.

The mirror above the washbasin reflects a flushed face and glittering eyes. There’s a hint of something I haven’t seen for a long while. I never named it before it vanished but now I see it’s home. For a visit, at least. I hope it’s here for a long, hot stay.

“You were such a long time, I got worried.” He’s waiting outside the door.

“In case I had dropped dead after the exertion of the stairs at my age? I don’t need a stair lift quite yet!” I tried to look stern and he tried to look embarrassed. We didn’t succeed.

He knows.

I know.