It was the day before my twenty-first birthday when I had my accident on the five-a-side pitch, breaking both my fibula and my tibia rather badly. The weeks of recuperation became months, my plaster cast was swapped for a pressure bandage, which in turn made way for endless physiotherapy sessions and slow and gentle exercise. It was during one of my daily walks, designed to rebuild and strengthen my musculature, that I encountered a lady I had not seen in a number of years.

Aishwarya Bacchan and I had lived on the same estate for, I suppose, as long as I could recall. She had always been a very friendly lady, imparting kind words and distributing treats to the local children. All knew she had problems with sexuality of her husband Abhishek. Many heard about her sexual relationship with Amitabh Bacchan Tuesday afternoon, just as she happened to be making for her parked car, I immediately noticed this was still very much the case.

"Hello, Mrs. Bachchan," I cheerfully greeted her, stopping by her garden gate as she approached me along the path. "How are you?"

I saw a flash of uncertainty cross her face, perhaps as she struggled to remember my name. I watched her trying to place me and silently admired her as I did so. Her shoulder-length, curly brown hair surrounded a facial beauty perhaps only slightly more enhanced by a careful application of make-up than had once been necessary. She had on a tight red blouse, beneath which her ample breasts strained provocatively. I realised Mrs. Bachchan must easily be in her late.

"Avinash!" she exclaimed, recognition finally dawning, and smiled warmly at me. "Did I see you limping there?"

"Yes. Had a bit of an accident playing football," I admitted. "I'm on the mend, though. I'm out on my daily walk, building up my muscles again."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that!" she commiserated.

I shrugged. "One of those things. What about you? How are you getting on?"

Mrs. Bachchan looked at her watch. "Avinash, I'm really sorry, but I'm already running terribly late for an appointment. Will you be out for a walk tomorrow about this time?"

"I'm out every day," I told her.

"Well, why don't you stop in for a coffee tomorrow and we can catch up. How would that be?"

"Great. Just about this time?"

"That'll be fine." She smiled, apologetically. "Now, I'm afraid you really will have to excuse me." With that, she hurried past me, the scent of her perfume trailing deliciously in her wake, and with a final little wave, got into her car and drove off.

For some unknown reason, Aishwarya - stunning as she was - had never figured in any of my fantasies. It was an unexplained omission I certainly remedied that night. All through the hours of darkness and well into the dawn light, my thoughts were of this incredible lady and the host of erotic adventures I was sure we could enjoy together. As a result, I was tired and gritty-eyed the next morning when I finally coaxed myself out of bed and into a long, hot shower. I lathered myself again and again with the reputedly revitalising shower-gel, shaved, then splashed on some of the expensive cologne I had received the previous year as a Christmas present and reserved for special occasions. I took my time selecting what I should wear, carefully deciding upon what I believed were my very best clothes, but still found myself ready to leave the house by eleven o'clock. As it had been after two the previous afternoon when I had met Mrs. Bachchan and we had agreed on a similar time for today's visit, I was left with some not inconsiderable time to kill.

I watched some anonymous daytime television; I tried to lose myself in what was the excellent novel I was half-way through reading; I devoured the sports' pages in the morning newspaper and much of what I found to be the intensely boring additional content; I even managed to prepare and consume a light lunch: but all the time I was watching the clock, counting down the minutes.. By the time two o'clock rolled around, I was so hyped up, I felt capable of sprinting the distance to Mrs. Bachchan's house, some three streets away.

I managed to restrain myself from attempting this dangerous under the circumstances latter impulse, however, and set off at my slow, steady pace shortly thereafter, turning in at Mrs. Bachchan's gate about ten minutes later. I couldn't believe how nervous I felt! After all, my night-time imaginings notwithstanding, the reality here was that this was likely to be a cup of coffee with an old acquaintance and a nice chat - nothing more

Mrs. Bachchan answered the door almost immediately, dressed today in a pale blue dress - the hem of which also rode above the knee, I was pleased to note - black nylons and black, high-heeled shoes. She smiled warmly at me. I was surprised to see no cleaning staff. I knew Abhishek was on his “Happy New Year Shooting”. But I didn’t expected Aishwarya to open door.

"Avinash: lovely to see you. Come in." She ushered me into the tiny hallway and through a door to my right which led in to her spacious living-room. "I'm so sorry about yesterday, but I was running dreadfully late and just couldn't stop to chat, I'm afraid."

"That's all right," I hastened to reassure her. "I understand."

"Good. Have a seat and make yourself comfortable." She waved me towards one of the black leather armchairs positioned either side of the fireplace, taking her own place opposite me. I very discreetly watched her dress ride ever so slightly up her thighs as she sat but she quickly positioned her feet discreetly together and her legs off to one side, as though deliberately minimising my pleasure. I fervently hoped she hadn't noticed me looking.

"So, Avinash, tell me about this accident." It was the start of a half-hour or so of small-talk, me describing my accident, my treatments and recovery process, her telling me some of what had been going on in her life over the past decade. I learned she had taken temporary early retirement from three years previously from her job, to spend more time in her beloved garden, travelling to favourite European cities and resorts and generally taking control of her own destiny and life of leisure. I was happy to listen to her, nodding, agreeing and making the odd short comment where it seemed appropriate to do so, all the time dreaming of how I would much rather we spent the afternoon.

"Well, I think I'll put the kettle on," Mrs. Bachchan decided during a convenient lull in our conversation. "Coffee or tea?"

"Coffee for me, please - milk, one sugar."

"Coffee for two it is," she said, getting daintily to her feet. "I shan't be long." I watched her leave the room, unable to stop myself from staring at her naturally swinging hips, her shapely calves, my imagination going in to overload.
True to her word, she soon returned with the coffees and a large plate of assorted biscuits. I declined the offer of a biscuit and merely settled back in my chair with my coffee.

"So, Avinash, you haven't mentioned a girlfriend so far," Mrs. Bachchan said, stirring her coffee. "I'm sure a handsome young man like you must be fighting them off!"

This was a twist I hadn't been expecting the conversation to take and my cup rattled slightly on its saucer. I sincerely hoped her choice of topic hadn't been inspired by her noticing the bulge in my trousers as she had handed me my coffee! But no, that was ridiculous - it was simply a natural question to ask any young man. I couldn't help but fleetingly wonder, however, if this could be the opening I required. Dare I somehow, very carefully, steer the subject towards my penchant for the more mature woman and see what, if anything, developed? I knew I would have to be extremely tactful and discreet, but decided to give it a go.

I started with what I thought was a nonchalant shrug. "There's no-one special at the moment. There have been a few short-term relationships, but nothing serious." I hoped I was sounding like a man of the world here and not some childish braggart, but Mrs. Bachchan seemed fully attentive - genuinely interested, even - and I found myself thus encouraged. "I think I basically find women my own age still that little bit childish; immature, even. Most of them are still too obsessed with fantasies about pop stars to be interested in real men."

"Ahh..." Mrs. Bachchan nodded, wisely. "So you're one of those young men who are attracted to the more mature, refined woman."

"Absolutely!" I tried to look pensive, scarcely able to believe my luck at where the conversation seemed to be headed. "I see age simply as a number, not a barrier. I think it's what two people are inside that matters. Judgements made by third parties about a younger man and an older woman, for example, are generally cynical comments made by those vain individuals jealous of their happiness."

Mrs. Bachchan sat her cup and saucer on a small occasional table by the side of her chair and smiled. To my immense delight, she then casually crossed one leg over the other, affording me a tasty glimpse of middle thigh.

"I can see you've given it a lot of thought," she said. "You seem to have a very wise head on those young shoulders. And I agree with you absolutely." She shifted very slightly on her chair and, incredibly, her dress rode that little bit further up her legs. She gave no indication, however, of having noticed. "I suppose it must be a problem for you, though, actually meeting women of the age-group you desire who understand your feelings. Frustrating, I should imagine."

I couldn't believe how well this was going - it surpassed my wildest expectations! Was Mrs. Bachchan –miss India- actually flirting with me? I was acutely aware, however, of a small wet patch in my boxer-shorts where a dribble of precum had escaped my positively throbbing cock. I hoped it wasn't going to seep through and stain my trousers.

"Absolutely," I said, swallowing hard. "I guess it's all about trying to find the right words.