‘ALICE COTTAGE’ it says boldly above the porch door. Blue letters against the peeling white paint. Tatty, old fashioned. I step up, conscious of his eyes following me; glad that his eyes are watching me, hope he likes what he sees. It’ll be easier if he likes me, I can control him then, not that he’ll know. I hope. I pause with my hand on the front door knob and I know, certain and for sure, that no other woman has crossed this threshold. Not like I do. Not with … with what in mind? I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Just things have made me be here. A twist and I step-in, fumble for the light switch with tears pricking at my eye lids. I blink them away as the harsh bright light splashes hard against rough whitewashed walls which throw the cold white light back into the chill and empty room. Bare floor boards with a moldy throw rug. A heavy dark stone fireplace at the far end. A tiny old fashioned grate is pushed to one side, half full of ashes all. Logs are stacked at the other side. A copper coal bucket sits on a thread bare rug laid in front of the stone flag hearth. A high backed chair is placed close to the logs facing midway between the grate and a white plastic TV that’s sat on an old kitchen stool. Beside the chair there are two plates and two mugs on a small carved wooden table. Why two? There’s no woman here. A guest? Not him! Must be his dinner and his breakfast. I’ll check later.
Grubby, pale blue Venetian blinds stretch blankly across the window space, closed against the cold and dark. No curtains. A bright rug hangs on nails on the back wall like a tapestry. It’s slung above a cheap two seater bed settee thing that’s struggling to support itself and the newspapers discarded on it.
Beside me, stacked neatly on bare plank shelving, are the various bits of the record collection with some tapes and an old wooden record player that looks like it does radio and tapes too. At the far end there’s a couple of video cassettes. Ever the nosey one I scan titles quickly. Kids stuff, his kids of course. They must hate it here, poor devils. Broken home and a run down dad. There’s not a single grown up video among them except, maybe, Sleepless in Seattle. Bet the kids brought him that, hopelessly hoping their mummy and daddy would ‘sort themselves out’ if only they could remember how it used to be.
The only personal touch I can see is a bottle of port with a single large brandy glass. His hobbies? Port and Blues? He’s going to have to change pretty sharpish, or is that my job? Is that why I need to be here, because he needs someone to shake him back to life? You know, Fate! And what happens to me when he realizes I’m just a kid, just a couple of years older than his own kids? Half his so called mates in the pub just waiting to tell him ‘I told you so’, ‘She was too young for you anyway’. Perhaps we’re doomed before we start? Or is that up to me too? It’s pretty obvious it’s me who’s going to have to decide what’s best for us, for him, because he’s still working for his ex’s father and she’s living it up in his house while he’s existing in this - It’s like he’s one of them cave people that hide away for a hundred years and no-one ever knows who they were or where they came from. Hermits! Even dresses like one in his brown clothes and comfortable jacket. I’ll change him, bring him back to life!
I hear him clump into the porch and turn to him with a bright smile as he dumps my little bag and his stuff by the wooden plank door behind me. The stairs? Another beside me, must be a cupboard under the stairs. A more solid door behind me, in the back wall, to the kitchen? Hope the loo isn’t at the top of the garden. I get a blank smile in response. He’s nervous too. Funny, I never thought of that.
He turns and steps back into the porch, gathers a box of eggs and a bottle of milk, offers them to me.
‘Thank heavens for Mary’ he says. ‘You’ve got a choice, make up the fire or cook yourself an omelet. You’ll find tomatoes and cheese in the fridge. Sorry about the mess. I wasn’t expecting … Bit of a state isn’t it. Everyone says it’s got potential but I haven’t found it yet.’
‘It’s fine. I’ve had worse bed-sits before ... It takes time, you know. You’ve started: the lovely rug, a comfy chair, and your records. Just got to keep looking.’
‘Well.’
He was very tight, nervous. I tried a laugh but it came out a cough. I took the eggs and milk from his hands.
‘I’ll get there one day.’ He wasn’t at all … what, ashamed, apologetic? What did I expect?
‘Money’ he explains ‘is the biggest problem. One day, but I’ve started.’
Hope he’s not going to start anther of his long winded lectures while I stand here with my hands full.
He takes my elbow and leads me towards the door in the back wall. A small, genuine smile lighting his face, a twinkle in his eye I haven’t seen before. It suits him.
I’m puzzled and a little wary, like it might be a surprise party and his mum and dad are sat in the kitchen waiting for their boy to come home. No, of course not. There’s the plates in the front room, there’s just him.
He stops me, facing the door. The hand at my elbow goes around behind me, holding me close beside him and with his other hand he gently covers my eyes.
‘Do you like surprises?’ His voice is gentle and confident. A confident Graham. Now that is a surprise!
‘Mmm’ and a nod against his warm palm. My knees are shaking. What’s the game?
I hear the door latch click. ‘There’s a step down.’ He moves me forward as I try to grope for the door frame to steady myself in the darkness but my hands are full of eggs and milk. His hand is warm and dry over my face. He’s got a lovely soft touch. My nipples crinkle. Where did that come from? They always know, I thought. Then I thought 'That's rediculous'. Most girls get a warm feeling inside. I get scrunchy nipples. Least I used to. In Cornish days. Now, with him, no way. Just his hand over my eyes, kinky, crunchy kinky. That's all.
I step down, groping with my foot, he hugs me close from behind to steady me. He steps down behind me. He’s very close and I lean against him just a little and I sort of like his hand across my eyes. He’s taller than I thought.
‘Did you like the front room?’
Oh. Not fair. ‘It’s got - err - potential.’ I hear the light click on, his fingers pink over my eyes, parting so I can peep through, then I can see properly.
This is the room he has done. Shiny, clean, warm colours, an inviting place to be, biscuit colours, tiled floor and worktops, posh glass fronted cupboards in pale wood and a matching wooden table and chairs by the back door.
‘It’s beautiful, straight out of a magazine. Did you do all this?’ As I turn towards him I see his smile is back, and pride, and a twinkle in his eyes again. Somehow his arm has ended up sort of around me as I turn back to look this way and that I let myself snuggle back a little then I turn back to him, still in the curve of his arm but he releases me suddenly, embarrassed at our closeness and he takes the milk and eggs from my hands and moves away from me. I miss our closeness. We ... I .. I think I was actually going to kiss him. Just on the cheek. Not sexual. Does he know? Sexual? Where did that come from? Do I know?
I move away to stroke the worktops, tiled in biscuit brown colours, the table, a pale pine wood with no varnish, just scrubbed like my nanny use to do hers when I was little. The tiled floor too, a lighter brown. Brown. His favourite colour. Well it suits in here. All the different shades coming together in a warm living / kitchen room. The bare white wood chairs need little cushions on them but I can do that. If I’m around long enough.
‘I did most of it. A couple of chaps from the village helped out showed me how to do things properly. And Mary. The colours are hers. I’m a little bit colour blind, things come out a bit strange when I try and do colours. Doesn’t bother me in the slightest but I’ve learnt not to try and do the mix and match stuff if I want other people to like it. The loo was the hardest, soldering all that copper piping and then draining it off and fixing the leaks. Took ages. And plastering. They call it a trade but it’s an art form, really. So difficult to get it reasonable, let alone right. Anyway. Look. Coffee and everything is on the side there, you’ll find the rest if you explore a bit. Loo’s there. I’ll put a couple of the gas rings on to warm it up a bit. The radiator’s in but there's no boiler yet. It gets a bit chilly these nights, days.’
And then he was gone again and I felt all lost so I wander over to fill the kettle and ‘explore’ opening doors, touching white cast iron pans all hanging neatly in a row on big brass hooks. Nights, days. Ws he thinking ‘nights’ for us.
He’d used pale woods to contrast with the light biscuit coloured, tiled tops. A deep, dark brown double sink with a gas hob just around the corner, same colour, both set into tiled tops. I moved toward the stove. It was a little cool in here, cool enough to embarrass a girl with no bra and pointy nipples, not that I was sure if it was the cool that was making them crinkle. Oh, what’s going on? I was only looking for somewhere to hide and now I want him to fuck my brains out. ‘Beware of the rebound’. That’s what Suzie always said. It’s just a reaction to all that’s been happening. It’s just – being safe again – being allowed to make decisions again, being asked if I’d like to make the coffee or light the fire. Why do I feel so ‘AT HOME’?
His cupboards, smokey glass fronted, are surprisingly well stocked, little jars of spices, big jars of pickled onions, jam pots and stone jars labeled ‘plain flour’ and so on in his untidy writing.
Which, I wonder, is the real man? The mess in the front room or the well organized man who runs this kitchen. A bit of both hopefully. This kitchen is just too tidy; you wouldn’t dare make a mess so where was I going to fit in? I could make it homely but he’d call it a right pickle. I’m going to have to be very tidy and very careful in here or I’ll upset his ordered system of doing things. I can be tidy, if I try really hard. I can!
I’m smiling and spooning coffee when he came back in with his dirty dishes.
‘You missed the most important cupboard, over there. That ones all yours. I could hear you going round you know. Women are just so nosey.’
He dumps the dirty plates and cups on the drainer and he’s gone again and back again, this time with the coal bucket, out of the back door and up the garden. The chill air blew through the open door and my nipples crinkled again. He called me a woman. He’s thinking of me as a woman. Not sure I like it. Better than ‘Girlie’ I suppose. I can hear him clanking around up there somewhere, getting more fuel for the fire hopefully. I open the cupboard he’d waved at, pull a face and let the door bump shut again. Ironing board, hoover, mops! Woman’s stuff, Barstard!
‘You’ve found your place then.’
He’d gone through to front room again before I could think of an answer so I stick my tongue out at the empty doorway. Wish he’d stop doing that, saying things and not waiting for me to answer, think up an answer.
‘I’ve gone off you.’ That’s what I would have said.
The kettle burbled , gargled, clicked. I closed the back door, he’d left it wide open but then his hands had been full with the bucket and several logs. I should have grabbed him, put my hands over his eyes and given him a surprise while his hands were full and he couldn’t turn away without being rude and then I could’ve … Bloody nipples. Behave. They look like cherries. Just ‘cos I was thinking about being close to him. Has he noticed? Do I want him to? Was that why he keeps going in and out? Don’t think so. A girl gets radar for things like that, when they’re being watched. We’re more sensitive than men. We know things long before they do. Except for Mikey. Except when we’re blinded by love. Then we’re totally stupid. Totally, completely, idiotically, stupid, stupid. So why was I doing it again? Make-believe to forget? Well, calm down. Make the bloody coffee. Get some food into yourself. You’ll feel better. And wait. Wait for a sign from him that he’s actually a tiny bit interested. Then you won’t make a complete ass of yourself. Again. And then wait a bit longer before you – before you commit yourself. Let him. Oh, Shit. Why is life so fucking hard.
‘Two sugars, please.’ He calls through. Bossy bastard. I stick my tongue out at him again, knowing he can’t see through walls. He’d have seen through me if he could see through walls..
I spoon, spoon, stir, sip. I take a moment, nipples are softening, push my hair back, smooth jumper straight, then I have to take his coffee through, hand it to him and get a brief ‘thanks’.
I hover a moment, sofa, chair. His chair, grotty settee. I turn, get my bag, hear the quiet of the house, return to the kitchen, into the loo, lock the door and lean against it, my little bag clutched to me. The mirror wall makes the room seem bigger than it actually is; the tint makes me look better than I actually feel. I’ve got a bit of tan on my face but that’s all. I hated the heat out there, couldn’t stand the fierce sun so I‘d hung about in the shade, trying to stay out of sight, out of harms way. Like now. Hiding in here while I try to use my excuse for a brain to work things out.
What have I done? What am I doing? Is this a pact with the devil? Will he want to? Will I be able to? How will it be? He’s so prim and proper he might actually think he’s obliged to give me a bed for the night just because he’s such a stuck up middle class twit and it’s his duty to look after the under privileged and – Oh, shut up.
One more man. So what? At least I’ve chosen this one for myself and he don’t seem half bad. The moment he’d walked into the café I’d known he’d be alright. When he threw that paper away I was sure. As I watched him eating I was certain. When I thought about what I was going to be doing with him tonight my nipples went all crinkly and I actually wanted him there and then. Just a reaction, I thought, to all that had happened. All the women in the prison and all the guards who’d used me to fill up the night shifts.
I’d been very popular with them because they could make me do anything they liked.
I was the one with no friends, no lawyer, not even the language to make a complaint.
And they made me do everything!
But it’s gone now. Now I just want a long, hot bath and some t.l.c. and then I’ll be fine again. I can start again. I just need someone to look after me for a few days and if this Graham’ll do that then I’ll do things for him. Anything he wants. There are no more surprises. I’ve done everything already. Doing it for him can’t be any harder than the things I’ve already done. And I owe him and I promised myself, ‘Never owe no-one then no-one can ever own you’. I can’t just arrive and do nothing. Expect him to feed me, keep me, and then wander off when it suits me. I owe him already, just for getting me away from that café. That truck driver had come so close to sharing his cab with me for the night. Ugh! He’d looked at all the pictures in the paper, even turned one of them round to see better, then looked at me to see if I was looking at him, fancied him. He’d slurped egg of his knife, he’d … then Graham came in and I knew. And I still know. Even if I do have to hoover and sweep and wash his dirty dishes. I’ll do a lot more than that if he wants me to. I just can’t read him. His lovely kitchen. In here too. Nice. Tidy. A little bit olde worlde, a little bit posh. Is that him? Like some Victorian Gentleman in his house. Where his word is law. What will he make me do? I shudder at some of the things I have done, been made to do.
It’s over, gone. Get over it.
As of today you can say ‘Yes Please’ or ‘No Thank You’ just as you want. My Choice. My Body. His desire, my control. Mine if I want him, tough if I don’t. I’m in charge of me, not him, not them. ME. Brave little me.
I check the latch and perch on the loo to search through my bag for a miracle. Perhaps the white blouse and skirt? And red shoes? With the high heels? See if he notices. He’s colour blind so he won’t notice the red shoes don’t go with anything and I’ll feel better out of these flatties.
I strip and wash at his sink. Love this room. The big tinted mirrors right down the long wall make it seem bigger. He’s put big taps on the bath with cracked white enamel ‘H’ and ‘C’ on them. And the pull chain on the cistern, just like at my old school at Redruth. And thick carpet. Soft between my toes as I slip my damp shoes off, see the black dye stains around my toes. I run the hot water until it warms up and use the flannel to clean my feet up and end up checking the door’s locked before I strip off and wash everything. New start, clean, all the memories washed down the drain where they belong. His soap is that blue streaked men’s stuff but at least it smells of something; hate to think what I smell like. I’ll start with my black feet, soap, rinse, wipe. Then my legs, thighs and there, extra soapy there, extra rinse, water dribbling down my legs, making a puddle. And my breasts and my neck and I’m watching myself, doing it slowly to myself, dropping the flannel and using my hands on my soapy skin, soothing myself, massaging myself, my breasts. My own breasts now. Not theirs. The marks have all gone now, just a little scar from that first time I’d fought back. I’d fought like crazy, thought I’d won when he went out and locked the door again but he’d come back with two of the other guards and the only fight then had been in my head. I knew I couldn’t win, I had to accept, to shut my eyes and close my mind and wait till it stopped.
And I survived, I got away, I’m here, and I’m safe and I’ve got hot water, soap, clean towels and Graham. He’s a bit special. Mainly ‘cos he’s so soft I can control him. He’ll do what ever I want and he’ll stop when I ask him to. I feel absolutely totally safe. If he walked in now he could probably have me if he took it slowly and gently and let his hands massage my neck like this and he’d let them slip across my breasts so gently and carefully and he’d ask me to lay down on the rug and he’d make love to me while the bath ran hot and full and then I could get straight into the bath and soak him away again while he makes me a coffee.
‘Ready in two minutes’ he calls. ‘Omelets and cold coffee.’
Fuck. My coffee. Ohh, food. I’m starving. He’s so nice to me. So caring. I will. I’ll let him. If he wants to. If I can.
OK. White blouse, black skirt, red shoes. And clean knickers, pale blue. I hope they’re clean. 30p off the jumble. Maybe not. I’ve not had a chance to wash them through. My own, the white ones, again. He’s seen them already, might even like to see them again. Not too bad and he did seem to like them. They’ll have to do. Wonder what he’s really like?
I looked in the mirror. Skinny body in white knickers. Bra. Also pale blue. 36C. It was all there was there. I used to be a 36B. Shit. Peanuts in a jam jar. I’ve lost weight. Should have known that! I try the blouse on over the bra but for one the colour shows through and for two the bra is just too big and that shows too. In a moment I look again. No bra, a smooth outline, my breasts barely big enough to lift the material away from me. If my nipples will behave it’ll do fine. Legs need a shave but! I step into the skirt and tuck the blouse in automatically. Hope it’s warmed up in there. Looks good, I turn, feeling good. And I need some attention, some lovely tender loving care and attention, lots of lovely attention. It’ll be nice, being cuddled by a cuddly teddy bear and watching telly in front of the fire. I can feel his hands on me, stroking. Crinkle. Oh. They’re showing now. Two cherries. Might as well be flashing like Rudolph’s nose!
I pull the blouse out of my waist band but it doesn’t help much and the blouse is wrinkled anyway. I tuck it back again, look again. So? Step into my shoes and see the difference in the way I stand, even my boobs look bigger just because the heels make me stand up straight. And I do look good, considering. I feel good and I feel better and I still don’t know whether I want him to like my body or to wait until I can decide if I like him or … So long as he doesn’t like it, me. That’ll be horrendous. But I like him. So!
‘On the table.’
Bloody nipples. So bloody obvious. I pick up the blue jumper again then throw it down on top of my bag again. I want to look good. I do look good. And I want him to like what he sees but my bloody nipples ‘ll give him the wrong idea and he’ll think I’m coming on to him.
Well if you stop thinking about him playing with them perhaps they’ll behave themselves.
I blow a couple of soothing breathing outs. Try to calm my butterflies. I can smell the cooking. I use his flannel to cool my face then step out bravely and cross directly to the kettle, giving myself a moment to not look at his eyes; I don’t have the confidence to see what he sees when he sees me. This is my choice. I can change it when I want to. They’re bloody crinkling again. Oh, shit. Calm down, he’s only a man. You’re the one in charge. Lucky for you it’s him and not that bloody truck driver. You chose him, you chose to come to his house, and this is HIS house, all he has left after that woman … All he has, this and his kids once a month. And I can make a difference here. Change his house. I can warm it for him. Warm him. Look after him and do his hovering and make his bed and cook his dinner and … Well what else can I do on the two and half quid I’ve got left?
His back is to me, pouring soup into two bowls. I spoon more sugar into my cup, something to do.
‘Smells good.’ Something to say.
‘Out of a packet. I often use it for stock in a stew. Have you tried that? Doesn’t always work. Seems to stick to the bottom if you put it in too soon and sometimes the flavours seem to clash. Know what I mean?’
Now his head turns towards me, still stirring the saucepan but his hand stops.
‘Wow. Didn’t know you were so pretty.’
Then he blushes. And I feel the colour rising in my face too, must be the heat in here, from the cooking.
‘Thank you, kind sir. You’re not so bad yourself.’ Well. What else can you say?
‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude. I should know better. It was a bit of a surprise, seeing you dressed up. That sounds even worse. Sorry. But you worked to be in an office, boys must have – men must have noticed you?’
‘I did Legal stuff. Very boring. So wa the boss. Dirty opld man actually, if you must know.’
We were both smiling for no reason. He’s still holding the spoon in the pan, just stood there now. He’d forgotten what he was doing. Men!
‘Can I do anything? Coffee?’
‘No. I’m fine. Sit yourself down, this’ll be ready in a minute.’
He actually seems to shake his head, turned the gas off and follows me, holds my chair for me as I sit, offers me a napkin which I place across my lap. He’s lovely.
‘How long were you there?’ he asks and we make stupid conversation about ‘office’ and ‘bosses’ between mouthfuls of hot soup and rough bread as we both try to work out what’s going to happen next without letting the other know but I’ve got him hooked good and solid. I think.
I stand up with my empty bowl and deliberately lean across the table to gather his to take to the sink. I watch for his eyes to flick to my cleavage but they don’t. I dump the bowls on the drainer and go back to the kettle. He’s soon at the stove and by the time I’ve refilled the coffee mugs he’s stirring eggs for the omelet while the pan sizzles mushrooms.
I decide to put on a show for him, lifting one leg to stroke the back of the other, moving my weight to push a hip out a little. I feel good in my skirt. I feel safe in his kitchen. I fell naughty in my bare legs. I stretch more than I need to reaching for the sugar, giving him my bum in my tightly stretched black skirt. My fingers release the top button of my blouse. It’s got warm in here with the cooking and everything. I can hear him moving behind me. I wait for his hands at my waist. I hear him put plates on the table and a chair grates on the floor. I smile, waiting for him, to do something, say something.
‘Leave that. This’ll soon get cold. I’ll pass if you don’t mind. I ate earlier, you saw.’
Damn him. He hasn’t even been watching. Too busy with my food. It smells good though, and I’m ready for it. The food!
He’s standing behind my chair again, waiting for me. His face is flushed. He was watching! Or is it just with the cooking? Is it really hot in here?
I take my seat, trying to be ladylike, smoothing my skirt beneath me as I sit. The omelet tastes as good as it looks. The mushrooms are crunchy. The taste is strong with the cheese. My eyes flash him an ‘its good’, my mouth is too busy. While I eat he potters about, finding jam and more knives and small plates while he talks about Mary who left the eggs as if she’s an Aunt or something. He takes a huge knife to cut bread from a small loaf and I swallow at the thought of it against my throat. I feel pale and wavery while h rambles on like how she’d adopted him when he moved here, chose the colours for this room. I nod, recovered from my horror moment and start to babble on about Redruth and with the omelet demolished I lean back so he can see the outline of my breasts under the thin material. He’s opposite me now, passing me coffee and sitting down to spread butter and jam on the lovely thick bread. I talk about my childhood days and surfing and I lean forward a bit so he can see I do have actually got a bit of cleavage. Wish I had more. I talk about my first boyfriends and realize I’m teasing and flirting so I talk about jazz and blues while he does a sexy chew on his a chunk of bread and jam and I think about undoing another button because I need him to be interested and he isn’t taking much notice. He’s supposed to notice. I start on about going off to college and my mum getting ill then he stands up and I think he’s going to grab me but he just sort of drops a hand on my shoulder and gathers my plate as my emotions well up and overflow and my face is in my hands as the first sobs shake me as memories of those summer days and mum and picnics on the beach when I was little and the funny look in her eyes when I got the letter about college. Next time I saw her she looked so frail and afraid. Perhaps she already knew what was going to happen but couldn’t do anything about it and she wouldn’t spoil my life just because she was scared and lonely.
And Mikey. I know he hurt me. And he put me in prison to save himself. But I’d loved him, been very deeply and totally infatuated as only a teenager can be, even if I was twenty two. It was only the drugs. We’d have been alright. He was working most of the time. He could have gone to therapy. But I knew I was kidding myself. I’d had long enough to think about it, hadn’t I?
Graham’s bumping dishes in the sink, washing up. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hands, go to help, to dry, but the sink is still filling so I drift into the loo, use his flannel to cool my eyes, my face. And I do that button up again, the third one. He’s not interested. I don’t know whether I feel relieved or disappointed but I can’t hide in here, I don’t need to hide in here, I’m safe. So dab my cheeks again, smooth my blouse and go out to help with a little ‘Sorry’ as I take the cloth and a plate a wipe round and round while the tears run again. He snatches quick looks at me, at my face, as I try to finish the plates. He washes slowly, handing me each one to dry, keeping me busy, letting me - I don't know. Think. Decide. Whatever it is I’m doing. At last he pulls the plug, rinses the sink round, takes the cloth from me, sits me down at his table makes coffee. He puts it in front of me and goes off to poke the fire in the front room. He’s left the door ajar, I can hear him poking the fire, chucking on another log or two. A clanking of the fire guard, making it safe, safe for us both, for me, for him.
I drink coffee between sniffles, feeling stupid and cross with myself, hear him putting a record on the machine. A pause and then a trumpet wails. Blues! I’m grateful to him for just being there but I wish he’d play something else.
The coffee and brief visit to his flannel with more cold water to sort me out and I know I must wander through to find him. His coffee’s going cold on the little table beside him. His glass of port rests comfortably in his hand.
‘More coffee?’ I ask by way of an apology.
‘Rather have a pint. Fancy one?’ He looks at me carefully, eyes full of concern and worry. ‘You alright now?’
‘Mmm. Alright.’ I manage a wobbly smile. ‘A pint sounds good. But I haven’t much money.’ He might as well know.
He smiles. ‘What’s a pint between friends? Will you join me, as a friend?’
Friends, I’m thinking, is not what I want to be. I can’t run off when I feel like it if we’re friends.
I nod. ‘Give me two ticks though. Do my face.’ And I’m thinking I’m only here to use him then he’ll be on his own again and blue. But I’ll make him happy while I’m here, happy as I damn well can. I promise.
‘Take five’ he says, then he laughs. ‘I’ve just done it again haven’t I? You’ll never need time to look beautiful. It’s me that needs it. I need to get rid of this shirt and tie and find some clean socks. I haven’t been home for two days. I was in Cardiff last night then Leicester today. It’s been a long couple of days. A pint’ll take the edge of it. When we get back you can tell me the rest of your story if you like or it’ll wait ‘till another day. Here, sit here, chairs warm, the fires doing it’s best. I’ll see if I can find a jacket for you. It’s chilly out.’
‘I’ll be alright. It’s good to be cool again. Fresh air.’
‘It might feel good but those thingumies are getting me all hot under the collar.’
He sort of waves a hand towards me and I know he means my nipples. I smile. He’s noticed. Such a softy.
‘Graham, it’s not the temperature that’s making them … I’ve … They … You … ‘
‘I trust you Petra, and you trust me, maybe. It’s just that it’s been a while and I’m not actually feeling quite as well behaved as I said I would be so if … if you don’t mind I’ll find you a jacket, or something.’ He was heading towards the door.
‘Graham.’ He has to stop, turn, face me. I slide into his chair to really make my point.
‘Graham. I’m here in your home. Desperately lonely, scared, much in need of care and attention. Every day in prison I told myself that I’ll never owe any one ever again and that I am always going to pay my way.’ It’s not just a warm fire I need, you understand. A good friend is what I need but you should never owe a friend, that’s what they say don’t they?’
‘You can stay. You don’t have to pay. I’ve always been soft as lights. Stay and be welcome.’
‘Thank you kind, Sir. You can be my knight in shining armour and I’ll be your maiden in distress. Right?’
‘Rusty sort of Knight.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Heart of gold I reckon. So what, kind Sir, do you think happens to the maiden after they ride off into the sun set?’
’Live happily ever after, of course.’
‘What happens on the very next page, Graham? Do I have to tell you?’
‘He has his wicked way.’
‘Precisely. She pays her dues and he has the time of his life. That’s the deal. And you want to go to the pub first though.’
‘Dutch Courage for a rusty knight?’
‘So what’s to be frightened of, me?’
‘Hah. You!’ He’s wringing his hands, washing one in the other.
‘Little me?’ I ask him.
He just stood there looking, first at my hands, second at the floor, now into my eyes. His mouth opened, closed. He turned towards the kitchen.
‘Five minutes. I’ll – err - find you a …’
‘I’ve got a jumper, the red one, remember.’
‘I’ll fetch it.’
I sit back smiling, smirking actually. So, there was a glowing ember in there somewhere and fate has sent me here to bring that ember back to life. And perhaps fate will deal me some decent cards just for change, just for a while.

He’s coming towards me, my jumper over his arm and a smile on his face. I stand and he just sort of folds me into his arms and the room smells of wood smoke and coal and the man, my rusty knight, and he smells of his manly soapy scent and if he doesn’t let go I’ll start blubbing again but it is comfy and … I ease away with a squeeze for him and he lets me, just a hand on each shoulder while he says ‘You’ve got a friend now you know. You’re safe here, as long as you like.’
And that nearly starts me off again so I lean my head on his shoulder and mutter ‘Thank you’ and then let him stretch my jumper over my arms.
I stop him. ‘Not on top of this’ I say and turn my back and hope he watches me unbutton the blouse, slip it off my shoulders, fold it over the back of his chair. I turn now, holding my hands out for the big red jumper, not at all sure he’ll let me put it on. Even less sure I want him to.
He passes it to me, watches me tugging over my head, pulling at the sleeves, pulling it down over my waist. My eyes watch his, his eyes watch everything, sometimes they even look at my eyes watching him until I turn my body, distract him with a teasing glances.
‘There’ I say, hearing the sarcasm crackle in my voice. ‘The wicked monster back in his lair. I’ll be one minute.’
I go off to loo again. It’s becoming my favorite place. Cold flannel to my eyes, trying to ease the red puffiness beneath them. I fumble for make up in my little bag, just lippy, but it’s a brighter red than I meant to get, tarty. Not me. So what are you doing here?
Trying not to take advantage. Trying to give back as much as I take. Trying to start again, that’s what I’m trying to do. Just pay my way as I get my life back together. Bring him some warmth and cuddles as I go. He needs some. Cuddly warm cuddles. He needs someone to hold him too. I discard the big red jumper, it might be a bit warmer and my tits won’t be so bloody obvious. Not my tits, my nipples. You know what I mean. Wish my slacks had dried out. Skirt’ll have to do, just have to remember not to play pool in it. Blue top, black skirt, red shoes. It’ll have to be the flatties. I change my mind again and wipe most of the lippy off before I wander through. Well I don’t know what he likes, do I. Does he want a London Tart or a bit of Cornish Cream? Yeah. Clotted cream. That’ll be me.
‘Will I do?’ I know it’s a woman’s cheapest trick but sometimes we need to hear some friendly lies.
His eyes run down me, top to toes, then more slowly back up, his smile growing broader as they follow the shape of me, not my clothes. His eyes warm my body as they passed over me. I let my hands dropped loosely beside me, letting him see me. They pause at my breasts and I feel the crinkle, know they’re going hard and tight again. I know why too. Does he know yet? Is it in his eyes? His eyes lift a little higher, study my face, meet my eyes.
‘You’re perfect. Will I do, just for this evening?’ was his answer. His tie was askew, shirt cuffs undone and still rolled up for the washing up. There were a couple of splashes on the front of his trousers. I took the two steps toward him to sort him out, pulling his cuffs down and doing the stubborn little buttons up. He settles his jacket over his arm as I smooth him down, his shirt front.
‘Tie has to go’ I tell him.
I stay close in front of him while he drags his tie off, throws it towards his chair. I undo his top shirt button, stretching up a little. It just seems natural to kiss his cheek.
‘That’ll do nicely’ and I had to smile as his face seemed to turn inside out with embarrassment at being kissed so I turn away quickly to the door. Must remember that. I’m going to have to take him by surprise if I want to let him know it’s ‘Come on. Decision time, go out – stay in?’
Chance’d be fine thing. Oh, I don’t know what I want either. So long as they don’t find me, that’s what counts. That’s all that really matters. But my heart says ‘liar’ and my nipples are playing up again.

I lifted her coat from the peg but she felt it, declared it ‘Damp’ and decided to do without it, if it wasn’t too far. Her eyes were so full of teasing innocence I couldn’t speak, just thought how chilly her nipples are going to be, then she turned, leaving me to follow. Does she know how lovely she is? I flicked my jacket off its hook and folded it over my arm, it’d be cold later and she’ll probably need it. Outside she made me put it on, brushed dust off my shoulder that wasn’t there. I thought she was going to reach up to give me another peck on the cheek so I turned away clumsily. What was her game? Was I it? Pull a geriatric? Like a girlie version of Pull-A-Granny. There was too much else going on. Too many lies and too many tears. She’d have to work it all out in her own good time. Same as I’d had to if it’s really just a broken heart. I hoped Mary would be in that night, she’d know what to do. Her hand had gone into the crook of my arm like my little girl does when we walk in the woods. How old was she really? What did she want? How long would she stay? How long could I afford to have her staying? What will it be like when she goes? Empty? Empty house, empty life. Friends, just friends. That’ll be best. And a waste! Shit!

As I stand in the porch waiting for Graham to lock the door he follows me out, nudges me gently down the steps.
‘Aren’t you going to lock it?’ He looks startled for a moment, as if he wasn’t really here but - .
‘Good lord, no. Neighbours will think I don’t trust them. First thing I learnt down here was ‘Don’t lock your door’. You can trust every one who lives here. Any stranger stands out like a sore thumb and every busy body in the village keeps an eye on them. Same in Cornwall isn’t it?’
‘I ‘spose. Used to be but the tourist trade brings its own problems. Redruth’s a busy town now. Not like this, all homely.’
‘Homely are we?’ he laughs at me. At least he’s laughing, nice laugh, happy face.
‘You know what I mean. Don’t laugh at me’ but I’m laughing back. We’re face to face for a moment as I pull his arm to tell him off and something makes me hang on to him and try to pull his face to me so I can reach up to kiss his lips but he turns away again and I pretend to brush a smudge of lipstick away and we’re both embarrassed.
‘Lipstick’ I explain, taking care to leave the smudge intact. Serve him right, smug sod. But it’s me that has to put things to rights –
‘I wasn’t being rude. Homely is nice, safe. I like homely.’
‘Yeah. I believe you. Alright. Pax. Come on, it’s too cold to stand about.’
‘Put your jacket on then, it’s a lovely evening, you’re just a wimp.’
He complained as he did what he was told, ‘Us old country folk’ he told me like he was some old farmer ‘have learnt to take care of our ‘sen.’
I help him sort out an awkward sleeve.
‘Can’t even dress your selves’ I scold him. ‘An’ us Cornish folks is ignorant is we?’ We turn and head for the pub, my hand in the crook of his arm again and we’re close again, happy again, the way I like it.
He laughs and puts his hand on top of mine where it rests comfortably in the crook of his arm and I don’t have a care in the world.
The rain has sort of cleared but the breeze is persistent and chill, cutting through my thin jumper, raising goose bumps on my arms and I’ve got that crinkly scrunchy feeling again. At least it’s just the cold this time, well mainly, and I can see the pub lights as we turn a bend in the narrow road. Not far. There’s no traffic. A few parked cars, the odd light behind curtained windows. Very quiet here. Away from it all. It’d be eerie if I wasn’t with Graham. He walks fast, I’m rushing to keep up with him, feel my breasts bobbing gently with the pace. ‘Spect he’s doing it on purpose, dirty old man. My heels click clack on the road. A chill, damp evening in England. How I’ve missed it.
He pauses at the door. I think he’s going to tell me to behave myself but he says nothing, pushes through against the strong spring, holds it back for me so I can follow him in without the door throwing me back out into the street.
Friendly ‘Evening Graham’s’ ripple around the bar and eyes follow me to the bar. Same as my own village on a winter’s night. Every face was to be welcomed or assessed, greeted or ignored, depending on the every day politics of the village. Some spoke, some nodded. Some scan me carefully; others just look briefly. Dominoes clattered beside us as another game began stilling the cheerful banter over the play of the last hand. A darker area behind the bar, probably for a dart board and from another room beyond the bar loud lads are playing pool and desperately displaying their talents to a couple of local girls as they struggle to make the transition from schoolboy to man. Their noisy jukebox music, coarse and strident, washes through the pub, giving some privacy to quiet conversation. I don’t know the tune or the band but the words are vaguely familiar.
The barman turns to Graham with an ‘evening’ and pulls a pint of bitter. Graham answers ‘Evening George. Chilly out there.’ The bar is too small for private conversations, Graham waves toward two ladies perched on bar stools, ‘Mary and Annie, George’s better half, and John, Mary’s lord and master, when he’s allowed. This is Petra, a niece. She’s staying overnight, on her way to Cornwall.’
Wish he hadn’t said niece, the smudge of lipstick is still on his cheek, I can see Mary has spotted it. Her lips scrunch a little and she looks away, dismissive.
I half wave, half smile around Graham, trying to hide behind him until I warm up a bit and my nipples soften. Don’t want to look like a London tart.
George is asking ‘What’s yours then, love?’
I ask for a pint of bitter, same as Grahams, giving him a look to say ‘if that’s alright’. There’s no comment but I see the ladies have dainty glasses and the men have pints and that’s the way it is, always has been. Oops. Still, too late. George is already pulling my beer. And people think us Cornish are last century! Even the two girls next door have halves of lager but I ‘spect that’s ‘cos the lads can barely afford their own drinks let alone treat the girls to free drinks all night. One looks like sister to the darker lad. Poor sods.
One old boy, at the dominoes, is ogling me. His face is red from his evenings drinking, his thoughts are blurred ‘cos he don’t half fancy me, and his chances.
‘Be a lot better beer than you get up Lun’un, Ay Graham? Mind you, Lun’un does have some good points.’ And out of sight of most in the bar his eyes brush over my jumper and it’s diminishing but still noticeable points. Need cardy!
I turn away a little, decide to ignore him, heard it all before in too many Cornish pubs and London wine bars. But these are all friends of Grahams. I’ll have to face him down. I even remember how.
‘Never drank the beer up Lun’un.’ I drawled in half Cornish ‘It were that top pressure stuff. I was weaned on proper ale, slow brewed, hand pulled. Like this only darker, stronger.’ More softly I added ‘We ‘ad our share of dirty old men up there an’ all.’ Like falling off a bike. Three years since I’d last crossed swords with an over amorous, over filled Mr. Obnoxious, young or otherwise. Three years since last I’d been able to fight back.
‘Ahh.’ He said. ‘Thar’ be right thar’ lass’ which to a country girl means everything and nothing. Tonight it was an apology and an acceptance, at least that’s the way I took it but I’m still staying close behind Graham for the moment. Just ‘til things settle again.
My beer at last, I drew a couple of swallows through the froth, set the glass back on the bar and wiped my top lip with the back of a finger. ‘Nice.’
It seems sharp to my unaccustomed tongue and I must remember it will work quickly on me too. The chatter begins to flow around the bar again. If I’m with Graham I must be all right, or at least he’ll be responsible for my behaviour if I’m not. That’s how it works. Like taking a friend to an uncle’s house. Not that he’s my uncle.
Graham’s polite and fairly attentive. He’s more … more … on his best behaviour. That’s what it is. But he’s keeping me involved, included, as we stand at the bar. London had been a real culture shock until I got in with a couple of the girls from college. When we went out as a group the lads, and blokes, gave us some space. Still tried it on but usually they didn’t push themselves on us too much. Going out on my own was either lonely or scary. I could get a drink and sit in a corner and men would assume I was waiting to meet someone but after quarter of an hour I was fair game for any man in the place. Even playing pool didn’t help much. Every man was over friendly. In Redruth it was never a problem, there was always a customer or barman you knew and they’d keep an eye on you, make sure you were alright. You don’t miss it till it’s not there.
I came in for a fair bit of attention here of course. Red face still can’t keep his eyes off me so I have to keep my back to him, stay close to Graham. I’m gently quizzed by people Graham obviously spends a good bit of time with. I get by, being carefully vague, trying to remember details from my student life, don’t pin my age or a year to anything. And I get used to Mary’s careful eyes on me.
It was fairly easy. Most of what I said was basically true; I just left out the last five years, by adding A levels to fill in for a couple of years and gradually they left me alone to talk of local matters and people that meant nothing to me. Graham was nice, including me in things with the odd explanation, description. I stayed close to him, taking the chance to enjoy the warm, cosy atmosphere. Perhaps the chatter should have been of boats and catches and market prices in the soft fast patter of the Cornish fisherman that I grew up with but I didn’t mind. I was in English, in middle England, where I belong, at least, where I came from, well the end of it. At last I can relax and try to remember the quiet and trusting girl I used to be before I went up to London so many years and so many tears ago.
Graham raised an eyebrow to me as he finishes his pint, hoping for another one or seeing if I was OK? I hold my glass up, still nearly half full. Wickedly I down most of it in one go, a breathless ‘Go on then, but just a half’ and push my glass into his hand with a smile that says ‘you know what’s happening later’.
He turns quickly back to the bar, letting me watch him, this quiet man who has so quickly become important to me. He’s comfortable here. It suits him, a place with no airs and graces, a place that’s let you be what you are. I watch his strong, comforting back, his head, already thinning in a little circle at the back. He’s my friend. For just a moment I almost believe I am his niece then I remember. I’m no young girl dreaming of romance.
I’m staying with him. Overnight. This is the man who’ll be making love to me later. In his little bed at the top of the wooden hill. Has he done that room out too? Arabian nights. Flowing silks and plump cushions all around. Not his style somehow. I look at Mary. Has she been up there?
He turns back to me for my glass. The sudden flush is from drinking too quickly I tell myself. Not from thinking about his bedroom. The second man I’ve chosen. Well, apart from Cornwall. ‘Spoae I didn’t really choose them either, they were just sort of there and I was so inquisitive. To start with.
Will he know he’s only the second, well, man anyway? Cornwall? Well, they were all experiments, close friends rather than lovers, something you did in the dark at the back of the beach with a bottle of cider and only after a long hot day and only if no-one else wanted to go home yet. We all did it. We girls could look after each other. You know your alright if you’ve got mates nearby if things got out of hand. Most of the lads we’d known all our lives but sometimes a bunch of lads from the next village would get involved too. Get a bit hectic then. Too many bottles of cider, too many lads. But that was then. That was what we did. Tonight, somehow I’ve got to make it good for him; he’s been so good looking after me. I owe him.
He turns back to me with my half pint in a ladies glass and I catch his eye, give him a saucy, flirty look to tell him my thoughts. He smiles suddenly, happy and proud for a moment, caught off guard until he remembers where he is so he raises his glass to me, just a half inch. There’s a twinkle in his eye as we both sip through the ring of froth on our beers and I can feel Mary’s eye on me again. A careful and experienced watcher who’s missed nothing of our private moment. She turns away at a question from her husband. Graham’s asking about my Mum and I’m trying to remember what I’d told him. The beer’s getting to me a bit, I shouldn’t have guzzled it. My first for a long time, bound to work quickly, but I’m too happy to really care. I hope he knows I’ve just offered to share his bed tonight. Should I be ashamed, upset! I’m not being a tart, all I feel is naughty. After all, what’s one more man? At least I’ve chosen this one for myself. And he’s nice, in a warm, cuddly, curled up sort of way. I hope he’ll be careful with me though. And I giggle.
Mary looks at me sharply. Nosey bugger. None of her business. No. That’s not fair. She’s a good friend of Grahams, the milk and eggs, the colors. Probably wonders what the hell has got into him.
Her hubby, John was it, gets up and heads for the loo. I take the chance and slip around Graham and the other lady, Annie, squeeze past as she gets up to gather empties for the bar. I sit in her seat, face to face with Mary with a smile glued to my face.
‘The beers getting to me. Never could take much of the stuff. Like it though. Not into the hard stuff, spirits.’
Her face smiles back but not the eyes. Annie asks Graham something and the two of us are quite alone.
Press on Petra. ‘You known Graham for a while then?’
Politeness made her answer. ‘Since he moved here. Be two year now. Quite a surprise to see him with company. Apart from his kids.’
She holds my eyes now, gauging. She packed a lot into that. He’s got kids! Keep off! A wife! He’s not for the likes of you! All in one short sentence. She certainly packed it all in.
‘He told me.’ That’ll take the wind out of her sails.
She backs off a little. ‘They’re divorced now but his kids come over regular. That wife of his is a hard woman. But you know her of course, being his niece.’
I smile again, genuine this time. ‘You didn’t believe that surely. He told me about his kids and a bit about her on the way down. Nice he still sees them, his kids.’ It seems important to win this lady over.
‘They’re lovely, little angels, the pair of them, but the less he sees of that wife of his, the better he’ll be. Nasty piece of work. Just about did for him. He had a bad time of it for a while. Still, just so long as he doesn’t get hurt again.’
Her anger surprises me, and the sadness in her eyes. I wait but she says no more, turns away as Annie comes back with their glasses refilled. I move along one to make a space for her, inviting myself into their group. I thank Mary for the omelet and compliment her on the colours in the kitchen and we talk about his house. She seems to of sort of taken him under her wing. Annie’s up again, slipping behind the bar. The domino players are at the bar and George is serving the lads next door. I lean across.
‘Mary. What’s his story? I need to know.’
She takes a moment to think, decides, speaks quietly, eyes downwards. ‘I used to work in a mental hospital. First time I saw him I could see he was near the end of his tether. Depression was just a few steps away. Nasty when it gets a grip.’
She’s lost in thought for a moment, then looks up. Saw the shock on my face. ‘Oh Heavens love. Don’t look so worried. He was only worn out, that’s all. We talked. He got over it. That woman was the … Well. I don’t like her very much.’
‘Nor do I’ I laugh, ‘and I’ve never met her. He’s alright now then? I never felt so safe with any one before.’
‘He’s safe as houses, dear. Too nice. That’s his trouble. Too nice to everybody. He had a bad time and he got over it. He’ll be alright just so long as he doesn’t get hurt again.’ And that reminds me she’s still very unsure of me.
She hesitates, then asks bluntly ‘Are you staying long?’
‘I don’t really know.’
That upsets her. Her face closes, she starts to turn away. To keep her talking I tell her how I’ve told Graham that I’m going to see my Aunty, if she’ll see me, and I tell her about losing my mum and make it sound recent. She knows there’s more but she doesn’t press. Perhaps she sees more than she hears for her eyes mist suddenly.
John slips in beside her, rests a hand on her arm. ‘You alright lovey?’
‘Been alright for three years. We were just talking ‘bout things. Go and play darts or sommat.’
John takes the hint with good grace, pretends he really wanted to chuck a few arrows, pauses to sup his beer.
Anne quickly picks up the thread.
‘Life can be hard at times, girl. Just take care with Graham. Perhaps you’re just what he needs for now. A little sunshine in his life.’ Then a bright smile, ‘Sometimes, when everything is as black as night, somebody walks round a corner, and everything changes. For me it was him. Great lummock. That was six months before Graham moved into the village. I saw the same despair in him that I’d been through. It mends easy with the right person.’
She touches his arm gently and his hand pats hers, without turning. ‘It’s a sort of anniversary tonight. Three years since … ‘
By her sudden shyness I guess what her anniversary is. ‘The first time?’ I mouth silently.
She’s so embarrassed she turns away quickly. Hadn’t expected me to guess, or hadn’t expected me to say it out loud I suppose.
‘Three years since we met’ she explains. My mistake. Different generation.
Quietly I say ‘We’ll have something in common then. I only met him tonight.’ Her eyes leap back to me, searching, seeing. I try to blagg it but she sees straight through me.
‘Just be careful with him. Don’t lead him on. He’ll survive, with help, he’s that sort, but he’s had enough pain.’
‘I’ll be careful. I do care for him. He’s been very kind. I’m not going to hurt him, not if I can help it.’
‘Be honest then. He’s a Yorkshireman. Did he tell you that? They’re different. Straight. Not like us southerners. But you’re Cornish, wasn’t it?’
‘Och Aye. And a sight dafter than any bloody Yorkshire man.’ and we laugh.
And it was just like that. We nattered for a bit, almost mother and daughter. She’s lovely. Annie rejoins us and we chatter on until I see Graham has nearly finished his pint. Time to … Time for … Us to go. I start to get to my feet, saying goodnight’s to the two ladies.
‘Looks like we’re off. Have a good evening Mary.’ and I lift my glass in salute again before draining it off.
‘Good luck’ says Mary. ‘Perhaps we’ll have two things in common by the morning.’
I look at her for a minute, more. Close my mouth.
‘Congratulations’ I manage to stammer, totally knocked back.
‘Hullo. What’s the occasion?’ It’s Graham over my shoulder.
I turn to him quickly, my face still startled.
Mary handles it with ‘Mind your own business, young man. We were talking about you, not to you.’
He looks so put out I don’t know what to say.
He pretends to shrug it off but I see he’s upset. ‘Can’t be anything good then. Don’t believe a word she says. Either of you.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s not important’ I try to tell him.
‘Right. You OK?’ He looks at me, then Mary.
‘We’re fine, just talking about tomorrows memories.’ Mary’s recovered already, her smile bright, her voice light. ‘Tomorrows memories? Oh. Ask me tomorrow, Right?’
‘Well done’ smiles Mary. ‘Good night, you two. Safe journey.’
‘Yes. Come on. It’s time we got back. You might have slept most of the way here but its poor old me needs some sleep if we’re going to drive down to Cornwall tomorrow.’
Poor Graham. Mary doesn’t let on, just gives me a wink, but I can’t resist teasing him a little. He looks surprised when I squeeze his hand but I’m more surprised at the deep flush of colour rising so quickly in his face. He looks guiltily at Mary, just like a little boy caught with his hand in the biscuit jar.
‘No secrets here, Graham’ she laughs at him. And louder she adds ‘Off you go and get a good nights sleep. You must be worn out the miles you do each week.’
‘Yes. Come along Uncle Graham. It’s been a lovely day but we’ve a long way to go before tomorrow night. See ya’ I add to Mary and push my empty glass into Grahams hand and put my arm through his as we head towards the door. A few ‘Night Graham’s’ are a little pointed. Red face, thank heavens, has gone, another chap in his seat, the game now boxed and the coming weekends cricket match is getting their full attention, names being penciled on a slip of paper. I flick a wave toward Mary as I pull the door to behind us. She’s got her arm linked in John’s beside her and I’m pleased she’s still watching us then we’re outside, setting off down the road into a brisk chill breeze wet with a fine drizzly rain. He slips his jacket off and drops it over my shoulders and I protest ‘cos he’s getting wet too so I make him take it back, put it on and then I let him snuggle me under his armpit so we sort of share it and it keeps the worst of me and I love it with his arm sitting comfortably, warmly over my shoulders keeping the worst off me. I have to lean close into him and hold him close to me with my arm around his waist as we clumsily match strides. Hadn’t realized how tall he is. It’s cosy under his shoulder, tucked in his armpit, hip to thigh as I try to stretch my stride to match his long legged gait. Does he know he’s cuddling me into him?
‘Feel better now you’ve ruined my reputation. They didn’t believe me when we went in but knowing me they probably all thought you were far too pretty to be a girlfriend. Not that they’ve ever seen me with a girl, friend or otherwise, just my daughter. But you, you little devil. You left them in no doubt. Mary didn’t need to use any of her considerable powers of deduction to know that you’re no cousin.’
I’m giggling with the beer and him and I turn and reach up to brush the lipstick from his cheek but he misunderstands and bends to kiss my lips very gently, briefly. My eyes are wide open in surprise and see his are closed and strangely his face is peaceful and quiet. I try to hold on to him as he starts to pull away and now I can brush his cheek.
‘Lipstick. Didn’t see it ‘till we got in there.’ Women are allowed to lie, it’s in the rules, and now it’s his turn to feel stupid.
I have to lick my thumb to get the mark off and we’re so close and its all snuggly warm inside his jacket and my arm pulls his head down so I can kiss him, not briefly, not gently. For a moment he’s startled but I feel his lips soften against mine and my eyes close as I pull him into me. His lips are hungry one moment, unsure the next, teasing, thrilling me ‘till I’m breathless and sure and both my arms wrap tightly around his neck, pulling him down to me, pulling my jumper out, making a big draughty gap that his hands soon find but they go around behind me and I have to take them and move them back to the front, push them up a little, towards the warm where my little nipples were burning to let him know all that waits for him tonight.
‘I’m Petra and I like you’ I breathe into his mouth.
But his hands stay low on my ribs, so agonizingly low.
‘I like you too’ he breathes around my kisses. ‘a bit.’
My lips are urging him on but his hands go no higher as I squirm and push against them until I have to take his wrists again, move his hands, sliding them up until his thumbs are touching the underside of breasts and my knees melt letting me sag into his hands, briefly my nipples rest against his thumbs but then his hands pull away, support me under the armpits to hold me up.
‘Come on.’ He whispers in my ear, ‘Let’s go home before you catch cold. What would Mary say?’
I hear myself whimper ‘Fuck Mary you dick head’ as he turns me, moves me along, tucking his jacket again around my shoulder. My arms find themselves wrapped around his waist. I see him trying to pull a little of the jacket to cover my hands so I grab his hand and put it back on my belly then snuggle him close again as we match our strides once more and set off toward home. Home? Then his hand begins to move purposefully upwards. I look up to flash him a smile and his hand cups my breast. I let him see my lip go between my teeth. I want him to know it’s OK, that I like it, that he has my permission.
His thumb traps my tight nipple against the side of his hand, the suddenness, the tingle of pain and pleasure making me stagger. I can’t breath properly, his arm across my shoulder keeps me moving forward as he rolls my nipple setting roaring fires in my belly but he’s pushing me along faster until I’m almost running, keeping in step like a three legged race with my arms locked around him as he catches and loses my nipple and breast until I have to shout ‘Stop. Stop. Stop.’ for laughing so much and he bends again to kiss me as I puff and blow and glow and soon we’re walking again, slowly now, my head against his shoulder as his fingers busily explore my breasts, squidging them, teasing and nipping my nipples, making my belly turn somersaults. We turn into his porch, up the steps, the door opens with a squeek and we’re inside. I turn to him as he pushes the doors shut behind us and he kisses me again, long and warmly comforting. His jacket falls away as I reach up to lock my hands behind his head, hoping then letting both his hands busily explore me, caress me, lift my jumper, sliding the hem upwards, rolling it up and over my breasts to expose them to the faint light and the cool air. I let my hands fall by my sides as he slides the jumper higher to flip it up over my face, down behind my head. His kisses wander across my face as he rolls my jumper on the back of my neck. Chill air on my breasts, my belly, my neck. His warm breath on my face. His hands tug the hem of my jumper down from my shoulders, down my arms, enclosing them behind me, leaving my arms deliciously encased behind me from shoulder to wrist, my whole body exposed before me as he steps back a little, gazing in awe of my breasts. Of me. I shake my shoulders once, make them bobble. His eyes lift to meet mine. His hands gently adjust my jumper on my shoulders, lift it up onto my shoulders and smoothing it, settle it, on my shoulders, down my arms behind me.
‘Beautiful’ he says. ‘I knew you would be. You OK?’
All I can do is nod and lean towards him. I feel too naked in the porch. He can do what he likes, I don’t mind, I just feel naked, knowing the street is there behind me. His jacket prickles my titties; nipples flinch and caress its coarseness. I look up to receive his kisses, return his kisses until his lips slide sideways, naughtily teasing my ear, my neck and I know where they’re going as they slide across my shoulder and then down and I know he feels the change in the texture of my skin as he moves onto the fullness of my breast, his lips nuzzling their softness until he takes my nipple between his lips, between his teeth. I was watching but now I lay my head back, look up at the rain drops trickling down the glass roof as his teeth find my nipple and his hands busy themselves holding my breast up to his mouth, I wish I had more for him, he doesn’t seem to care.
He cuddles me to him again, to his prickly jacket, and his arms wrap around me scrunching me to him in a lovely cuddle until his hands get restless and start exploring my back underneath my jumper, making me squirm against him as his fingers run down my spine to the waist band of my skirt, round to the clasp. He’s undoing it. In a moment I check the street, quiet, no cars, no people, the catch is already undone and he’s waiting. I look into his eyes and as I nod my skirt falls around my ankles. I’m glad I stayed with his favourite white panties; they shine in the dim light, virginal, new, innocent. That’s what he’s thinking, I hope. What’s he doing? Sliding down, kneeling in front of me, he can see everything, my breasts are just above his head, his thinning hair hiding my legs from my view but not from his, and not from his fingers, his hands. They stroke up from the back of my knees to my thighs to my hips, wide on the outside of each leg, then down again and forward a little and up again and down again and I’m just standing here looking up at the roof, down at his head, quickly up and down the street, feeling his hands sliding now right up the back of my thighs, feeling my muscles, the swell of my bum, he pauses, lets my bum rest in his palms, pulls me towards him and bends his head so I feel his face against my belly, moving down my belly, over my panties until I know he’s going to pull my bush against his mouth and I want him to. I want him to gently explore me everywhere, anywhere. Oh. No. He’s hooked my knickers with a finger, the downward pressure asking, can he?
I close my eyes, hold my breath, tension in my belly and I know I’ll allow, permit him, to strip me naked if he wants to. Instead he stands, holds me close again and kisses me soft and slow and I melt, melt, melt.
I tremble and he thinks I’m cold and steps back, finger in the front of my knickers and pulls, leads me through into the front room. I keep my eyes closed, suddenly shy of my nakedness but not wanting to change it. He clicks a little soft light on beside his gramophone, leads me to the centre of the room and there he says ‘Wait’.
I hear him moving about, here, there, the fireguard, something else, a draught round my ankles as he drops something softly to the floor. Then he’s back, I feel his fingers at my waist, hooking in the front of my knickers again to draw me closer to the warmth of the fire. My feet feel the softness of a rug, the old rug off the wall. My legs feel the gentle warmth of the fire. The finger pulls down, wanting me to come down onto the rug.
‘Lie down.’
I manage to kneel, not very gracefully with my arms behind me, and now I don’t know which way to lie. Bare and naked on my back, everything on display? Bare and naked on my belly, bum in the air? I settle for a ladylike curl towards the fire and allow myself to watch the flames, feel the warmth as I hear him behind me. Undressing? It’s going to happen then, he’s going to - . As I lie back onto the rug I know he’s going to love me, I can tell. It’s going to be sweet and tender and – Oh. He’s here, kneeling behind me, his hand on my hip, rolling me towards him, exposing me to his eyes, but his eyes are watching mine and he leans closer for a soft kiss and by the time he lets me breath again I don’t care what he can see. He’s still got his trousers on but his chest is bare, almost bald, white. Not bad, not good. But he’ll do. For now. I smile.
I manage to get my arms to each side of me by wriggling around a bit so I’m not lying on them and I watch him watching my nakedness moving in front of his eyes. He’s smiling softly, a sadness in his eyes turning to wonder as I settle. His smile grows wider. He’s always bloody laughing at me.
‘What’s so bloody funny?’ I’m lying here in the soft light, completely bare like some sacrificial virgin waiting on the altar for the ancient gods. Well he is pretty old. Now I’m smiling too and he thinks I like him a bit so he bends forward, touches his lips to mine softly, slowly, letting me respond to him. I use just my lips to draw him closer, make him hungry for me until I feel the need building in him. I feel a change in the power of his kiss and his caresses begin to wander all over my face, lightly teasing my neck, shoulders.
‘It’s no good’ he says abruptly. ‘It won’t do. Don’t go away, I’ll be right back.’ My eyes close in exasperation. I don’t want him to see how desperate I am for him to bloody well get on with it.
A door opens, I feel the draught, he’s going up stairs. He’d better be quick getting back or I’ll be fast asleep, I really will. A door bumps, more steps on the stairs and he’s back with a big duvet and a couple of pillows.
He spreads the big duvet over me so I’m covered from toes to chin. He’s tucking it around my shoulders like he’s tucking me in for the night.
He cannot be serious!
He’s still pratting about though, scrunching all the extra width between his knees and me. A bloody mountain of it. Now he’s reaching over me, pulling at my hips and shoulders.
I’m to roll towards him!
My arse is going to get the ‘Graham Eyeball’ treatment and just when I thought he was going somewhere! Flat on my face on top of the scrunched duvet. My arms still trapped, bum bare, bare arsed bum bare, fucking desperate for - . A hand on my arse, sliding over it to feel it’s shape, gripping it to feel it’s firmness. I tense it into his palm, squirm a little and moan softly. I get a pat on the arse then he’s pulling at me again, rolling me further from the fire. Oh. Just on my side. Fine. Fucking fine. Some new position is it? His favourite? One of his favourites. Oh, what the fuck, just so long as he does.
Now he’s rolling me back again, onto my belly. No. Keep going, his hands tell me. Right. Flat on my back again, lying now on the softness of his duvet, the rest still bunched between his trousered knees and my nakedness. He’s pulling the loose half of the cover over me again so I’m all covered up again. Like he’s tucking his little girl into bed. My eyes are watching his, trying to work out what the fuck he’s playing at. Am I supposed to sleep here? Now?
He’s bending again, kneeling to kiss me, holding my face between his hands. My lips try their very best to tell him to get a bloody move on but he’s into softly caressing my neck again.
‘You’re beautiful’ he whispers.
‘And?’
‘And. And I like looking at you.’
‘Good. And?’
‘And I like kissing you.’
‘Better. And?’
‘And … ‘ Chicken. He’s unsure. Doesn’t know what I want, expect of him.
‘I’m getting too hot.’
He just looks puzzled.
‘Will you please pull the duvet down a bit. I do seem to have lost the use of my arms.’ Cut the sarcasm, Su- Petra. He won’t appreciate it.
He’s folding the top edge down carefully as far as the top of my breasts. I wait a moment, just to see how stupid he really is before I kick the whole fucking thing away from me as far as I can. It’d be in the fucking street if I wasn’t lying on most of it. Oh Shit. Graham. PLEASE JUST DO IT.
His eyes travel up and down the whole of me as he kneels beside me. I close my eyes, let him look, be patient. I’m not going anywhere. Not yet. I try to calm myself, pray this is going to be worth waiting for. Right now I’m on the very edge of becoming a nun. Or a lesbian. A smile teases my lips. I keep my eyes closed, breathe, let my smile spread, light my face. Smile for so long the muscle of my face begin to stiffen.
At last his touch, his hands, finger tips, begin their journey of discovery, my face, my mouth, my neck. Now his lips on mine, his tongue pushing between my lips and tasting of beer. I let my body answer each touch, each move, accepting everything he does to me. His finger tips find my nipples, dance around them like butterflies on a flower in the warmth of the summer sun. Bumble bees arrive, heavier, more insistent; his finger nails now like tiny baby kittens; his fingers like nibbling puppy dogs; playing tug of war with them making me lift, arch my back, moan. His mouth moves there, his teeth. My whole body is tingling and rocking in answer to his insistent movements and my brains on fire, my eyes screwed tight shut, locking the pleasure inside me, remembering it, treasuring his gentle, insistent teasing loving worship of me, my body, and suddenly I have to stop him. I just can’t take any more! My head will explode! I turn toward him, away from the fire, my knees drawn up, my arms still trapped behind me so I curl into a ball around his knees, trying to leave no spaces for his teasing fingers, his hands, his lips. Just let me breath will you, I can’t do this, just lie there and let you light my fires like I’m a plaything, a machine. God, but it’s magical, what he does. And he’s just waiting, not knowing what I’m doing but somehow he understands. He waits, letting me get my mind back inside my head, letting my breathing slow to somewhere near normal. With the back of his fingers he brushes down my side, over the swell of my hips, to my thigh. ‘You OK?’
I nod, the tension lifts a little, lets me straighten a little. Slowly I can lie back again, little by little, until I’m flat, straight and totally exposed to him once more.
‘I’m still hot Graham’ I have to say. I’m only wearing my panties, surely he can work that out. Well I don’t want him thinking I don’t like it, do I? I don’t want him thinking. Actions, Graham. Not thoughts.
I wriggle again, settle and wait for him to start. ‘You’re very, very good and I’m so - I’m not used to - .’
I decide to shut up, close my eyes and I let my legs relax, spread just a little more so he knows it’s all his, I’m all his. His fingers hook my knickers at either side and I rock my bum, help him to slide them downwards, over my knees, over my ankles, away.
I lay still now, legs slightly parted, my bush tingling in the warm air. One thigh hot from the fires glow, the other chill.
It’s all his. Access All Areas.
His first touch is his hands to either side of my neck. My eyes pop open meet his and close slowly. Yes, Graham, I’m loving it.
Now his hands move, sliding down to either side of me, past my breasts, waist, hips, thighs. A pause then back again and each time he’s drawing the tension out of me until I’m completely relaxed. My breathing is slow and even. I’m going to go to sleep. I stir. His hands slide once more and this time they don’t return to my shoulders. I wait, looking at the ceiling. Whatever he does will be the right thing, I need him, want him, he’s just teasing me, making up his mind how he’s going to bring me off.
Oh, no. His first touch is his fingers on my belly button. I can see he’s staring at my little bush. I feel his fingers taking steps down my belly. I know where there going and my feet sort of fall apart, opening me wider with an odd feeling of stickiness. I’m soaked down there. Yuck! Hope he doesn’t mind. Why do men like that? I want to wrap my arms tightly around my head to keep my brains in, they’re spinning so fast now. I struggle as his fingers step closer, into my curly fuzz and jerk sharply as I feel his first real touch, through my pubic hair into the top of my slot, just where it changes from being outside me to being the inside of me, even if it is still outside.
He stops. Concerned, looking into my eyes, waiting for my breathing to calm. With a tiny nod I allow him to go on. I’m in complete control my mind tells me. He’ll do exactly what I tell him. He’s so careful. My body shivers and I’m on the brink of an orgasm and he hasn’t got around to actually doing anything yet.
His hands start again at my shoulders and smoothly stroke down my front, directly over breasts, across my belly, my bush, all the way to the front of my thighs. Heat builds deep in my belly. Imminent orgasm subsides to simmer some more in the heat of my belly.
I’m watching his face, peeping out at him between half closed eyes. His face is so serious in the flickering light of the fire. I see him focus on my crutch, my fuzzy bit. I feel his hands change, feel one finger trace around my curly bit, stroking through the short hair and slipping, dead centre, downwards, then back to start again and this time it’s more insistent and each time my hips tilt upwards to take it even deeper but he won’t allow that. He moves back to my belly button and two fingers trace down and this time they just open me, right at the very top, so close to my button, my trigger, and I lay back, knowing he’s going to run back to my belly button and this time he’s going to go that bit deeper and I’m going to feel his finger on my trigger button and if he takes it away I’m going to kick the shit out of him and frig myself off. All my being is concentrated on that one spot while his fingers trace, tickle and slide down into and through my bush, hesitating at the very top of my slot. My ankles move themselves further apart and I’m laid wide open to him and mercifully he allows one finger to slide down into my wetness and find that special place and my hips move to tell him, that’s it, just there and me making a lot of little moany noises is probably helping too and now his two hands, and sometimes his tongue, build me easily, comfortably to the point where my body is rigidly held in place waiting for the first waves to - Ughhugh. He’s done it, Ughhgggg - Ahhh - doing it, Hooo - drawing it out of me, Nnnnmmm - making me shake and Fuck it - squirm under his Shit - finger until I have to clamp my legs tight shut and roll toward him again and let the waves wash through me, making my body rock like they do when you lie in the surf on a hot summers day and he seems to know he mustn’t touch, can’t touch, until the throbbing has eased and I can breath properly again and I can hear my heart beating strong and firm in my ears. I’m going to have to come out, stretch out again, speak to him, say something. ‘Thank you’ says someone. It was him. I laugh, nearly cry. He’s such an idiot.
I blink in the flickering light; my face is red I know, my body a golden glow in the soft light, with sparkly highlights from the fire. I look pretty good, I realize and squirm myself flat again, relaxed, full of his loving caresses.
He’s bending to kiss me again, nicely softly, and I can tell him now, without speaking, but I have to tell him.
‘Wow. Mister bloody fantastic. Phew. Who taught you to do that?’
A little shadow crosses his face, his wife, ex, a smile. ‘I don’t know. You I suppose. I’ve never - I didn’t know –‘
‘Shut up. Liar. You’ve had more girls than I’ve had hot dinners.’
He knows I’m teasing, we both know he’s not a ladies man. It must be me, I realize, that’s made him so – Wow. What do you call a man who can do that without even taking his trousers off? Wonder what his dick’ll be like. Wonder what it’ll be like with him, doing it, cuddled up with him buried right up me and - .
I roll back to him, curl around him to ease my back and take a few deep breaths before I can roll back to stretch this way and that making my titties wobble like fried eggs on a plate.
‘I’m cold’ I tell him with a smile so he knows I’m not. He gets up, flexing his knees to ease stiffness and I see he’s stiffly erect in his trousers. He folds the edge of the duvet over me then pulls it up over my face.
‘No peeping.’
I count to ten and shake my head until I can see it jutting out from his body.
‘Wow.’
He smiles. Relief on his face. Men! So vain. He comes to me quickly, lies beside me and I roll against him briefly just to feel him, warm him, and somehow I manage to let my leg knock against it. Mmm.
‘I’m still cold.’
I’m pushing it, I know. He moves quickly onto his knees, his thing bobbles in front of him, firmly, rock solidly, jutting out stiffness. Golly Wow.
I sit up, my arms still tucked behind me, just as he’d lead me into this room so long ago.
‘Hi. I’m Petra an I don’t half fancy you.’
A naughty smile lights his eyes, the flickering fire makes him look evilly wicked for a moment and a shiver runs through me. His arm helps me to settle on my back again, laid out for his pleasure.
‘Your turn’ I tell him.
‘Sure?’
Oh Yes. I’m sure. A nod was enough, I didn’t need the smile that lit my face. I close my eyes with his face in my mind and feel his hands getting busy again, building me up again to another shattering orgasm that even Susie couldn’t give me. How does he do it, so quiet, so gentle, so powerfully sensitive to my mood? Oh. Here I go again. Oh. Mmm.
My legs fall apart again and I know he can do anything he wants with me. I’m totally his. Totally, completely, wonderfully - .
He’s moving, getting on to his knees, he must think I’m ready now. I’ve been ready since I got in his car this afternoon. I spread my legs wider, let him, invite him, to kneel comfortably between my thighs, knowing I have no secrets any more and he leans forward, strokes across it with the back of his soft fingers and I lift my knees up so I’m wide open. Wide open, wet and willing and he moves again, closer, his legs touching my thighs, his hands on the floor at either side of my breasts, and it’s suddenly there, brushing against my leg but he bends lower, my knees lift higher and I feel him move lower, his head between my thighs, his lips on the soft skin of my thighs and I know he’s going to kiss me like Susie used to, so deliciously and between his lips and his fingers and his teeth I’m getting to the point of no return again so I have to say ‘Later. You first.’ and it comes out a sqeaky voice but he moves away and I know he’s going to come into me now and I’m so wide wet and willing. I just want him in me and as it touches me again, high on my thigh I feel chill freeze me, making me push him away, just a little, gripping him between my thighs. Holding his hips between my thighs. The prison is briefly with me, the pain and shame of each penetration, the crudeness of each bloody bastard who’d -.
But it’s him, poised, waiting, holding himself tautly above me, held between my knees, rigidly braced. Slowly I bend my knees, let my thighs move him an inch closer, closer again. It touches me, high, two, three inches above the top of my slot. I tip my hips up, open my thighs a little to let him closer to me, feel with my soft hair the head of it just a half an inch from me now, from my opening. My thighs grip him, hold him. Now I can let him come a half inch closer, into my curls. I know exactly where it is. The slightest movement and it will rest in the entrance of me. Now. It touches, pulls back a little and forward again in tiny movements he can’t help making. Incredibly he lets it rest actually right in my opening. I can feel his every tiny straining movement through the head of his cock just lodged there in my openness and I hold him there for a long moment until I want it in me even more than he does and I let my thighs open to release him, wider to open me wide, taking away any control of how deep he goes, wandering what he’ll do now he’s got all of me.
Just a gentle rocking, a quarter inch in, out, in driving me crazy with his fullness as his weight moves above me. My feet come up, give me another inch of him, inside my tube now, slippery wet. My feet push on the backs of his legs, telling him to go in, go on, do it. Stop teasing, fill me, you bloody teaser, please fill me up. Oh. More, more, more. He rocks in tiny movements, each time a little deeper, each time my wetness is drawn around him before he moves in again, stretching me gently, softly. He stretches his face up now, tries to kiss me. Another inch goes in. Nearly half way. I can’t breath properly, lick my lips, want his kiss, want him to fill me. I want to be ram jam full of him. He stretches to kiss me so gorgeously, moving forward, upward, filling me with his cock as. I realize somewhere that most of the movements are my own, my hips are doing their own dance on him. On it. He’s just hanging there above me, tautly, keeping his weight of me, kissing me, filling me, making me screw myself and my hips down onto it, lewdly, dirtily, hungrily screwing myself onto his cock for my own satisfaction. His hands move close to my head, stopping me rolling my head around. I look at him and fill with strange emotion, tears? I’m his! Does he know? More cock, feels different. Where did that come from? For a moment I’m still, looking up into his eyes as he lifts slowly, shakes his head and I feel his first tremble and I know he can’t hold it any longer as my lip goes between my teeth and my hips tip up to him again and he pushes into me, filling me deeper still with one great thrust that I have to screw myself onto with moans and groans and I’m starting to come on it just as I feel his throbs and suddenly he’s shooting into me, his throbbing triggering my come and his wetness mixing with my own and I want so much to hold him to me but my arms are still wrapped behind me in the jumper and I struggle to release them but he thinks I’m fighting him and moves quickly off me, soothing me, stroking my face. ‘It’s alright, your safe, your safe’ but he didn’t need to tell me that.
‘Oh Graham. I know. I just wanted to hold you. My arms seem to have got lost again.’
He just rolled me on top of him and slipped the jumper easily off me again and now I was on top, his wet thing trapped us, his face just in front of me and my hands don’t know what to do now they’re loose and in charge so I hold his face and kiss him furiously, snogging him, and thanking him and wriggling naughtily on his warm body while his hands hold my back, my bum, and then they start to tease my cheeks apart, trying to reach into the sodden wetness that I’m too shy to admit is mainly mine and I’ve got to wash before he finds out what a dirty cow I really am and I’m quick enough to avoid his clumsy grab for me and strong enough to resist his eyes that are following me to the kitchen door.
‘I’ll be right back. Just a moment, two ticks, I’m soaked.’

A couple of wipes with a handful of tissues and a quick cold flannel to face and down there and a smudge of his soap to each side of my neck so I’ve got a special smell for him and I’m skipping back to him to see he’s pulled thrown the big rug down on the floor and made us a bed with the pillows and the duvet and he’s smiling up at me, a corner of the duvet lifted between him and the fire and a smile on his face.
‘Put the light out then you won’t have to hide yourself.’
I’ve got one arm over my breasts, the other hand on my ha’penny as I stop half way across the room. I just fling them wide and high like a singer doing her finale. I pose, this way, that way, then I turn to switch off the soft light, stumble back towards him by the dim glow of the fire. He’s moving to this side so I’ll have to step over him to get next to the fire and I know he’s going to grab my legs when I’m stretched wide above him, and I let him, and I look down at him looking up at me and neither of us say nothing, there is nothing to say. We both know it’s a one off, just a fluke meeting of ships passing in the night and I shiver at the thought of not being with him and he releases my legs and I snuggle down beside him under the duvet and with one brief kiss to his cheek I turn my back on him and settle my head on my pillow as if I’m going to sleep. He turns toward me, his arm reaches over me to poke fire into a couple flames and I’m so grateful when he relaxes, plumps his own pillow and settles behind me, curled around me..
‘Night-Night Graham.’
‘Night who ever you really are.’ he answers.
The fire flickers and I close my eyes for a moment.

When I open them again the fires almost out. A street light makes a dim outline through the curtains. I haven’t been - . He’s still there, his hand on my hip above the duvet, his knee tucked into the back of mine. I push my hips back to feel his thighs and tummy pressed so close to me. His hand moves, he stirs. The sleeping tiger wakes. A poem isn’t it? I’ve just woken it! My hand reaches back, hooks his thigh up closer to me, it does it all by itself, I didn’t tell it to, and my bum cheeks are wriggling against him and my nipples start to tingle and scrunch so I turn over and kiss his eyes and his face and his mouth until he admits he’s awake too and returns my kisses and then I can turn over again and push my arse back at him and pull his hand under the cover and fold it around my titty and he’s caught on now and his fingers are holding me, teasing me in my nipple and my breast and his hips are moving against mine and I feel his strength growing down there until I have to lift and let it slip between my thighs and now I can leave him to get on with it while I tuck my fingers into my crutch and very gently tease myself, ready myself for him, because he’s going to come straight into me and just do it because that’s what I want and now he moves away to slide both hands down onto the cheeks of my arse, cups them, opens them as he moves forward and , with a quick probe, first his finger tips, then his dick and its coming into me and slipping deeply in so I have to push back hard against it to make sure it goes in really deep and I can feel his balls with my finger tips while I frig myself and he fucks me slow and sure while I get all excited and start moving and that sets him off again and he’s ramming it into me, his fingers hooked on my hips and pulling me back onto him fit to burst me apart and I’m screwing myself onto him as hard as I can and we both come breathlessly, groaning, together again and that’s always a good sign, ‘in it? And I feel his kiss on my shoulder and I stay asleep so I can deny it ever happened in the morning just in case he thinks I‘m a raving sex maniac or something and - Shut up. Watch the fire. Go to sleep. Yum yum. Wowey yum.