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Bristol,
1989
“Evening,Totty,
you're late this evening. Had a hard day?”
His
voice comes to her as she shuts the front door. She hangs her coat
on the pegs by the door and comes through into the small front room
where he is watching television. She has indeed had a hard day and
is disposed to be in a bad mood.
“Look
at you, ensconced in your armchair with your feet up and... is that a
cardigan? Oh my God, I've married your dad. All that's missing is
the slippers. You do know you're only 27, not 47, don't you? Is
that really sherry you're drinking?” It isn't obvious since he has
a wine glass in his hand. They don't own sherry glasses.
“It
really is. Do you want one too? Celebrate the end of the week.”
“God,
no. Do I look like I should drink sherry?”
An
eyebrow raised, she turns a slow circle in front of him and he
considers her seriously before shaking his head.
“No
actually, you look like you should drink vodka and tonic or maybe a
gin martini.”
“With
an olive?” It's clear she is pleased with this answer.
“With
two. That's a nicely turned ankle, Ms Britten.”
“Why
thank you, Mr Masterson. I believe these shoes show my ankles to
their best advantage.”
“Indeed.
And your equally well turned calves. Do you know, there is
something strangely erotic about the whisper of stockings against a
woman's frock.”
“I
know you are the only man of my acquaintance who would use the terms
stockings and frock.”
He
looks puzzled. “What should I call what you're wearing then, if not
stockings and a frock?”
“This,
my fuddy-duddy darling, is a dress and these are tights.”
“They
certainly are. I can't help thinking, though, that they don't offer
quite the same appeal as a nice stocking and garter.”
“They
do if you have to wear them every day for work, let me assure you.
Besides, no-one's worn a garter for centuries. It's a suspender belt
these days if you have to wear stockings.”
“Whatever.
Don't bother settling your skirt, Totty.” He grabs her hand and
pulls her down on his lap.
“Well,
someone's feeling frisky this evening.” She says breathlessly, a
few minutes later.
“I
would certainly like to feel your frisky, but I can't actually breech
these bloody newfangled tight thingies.”
This,
as he'd wanted, makes her giggle. She asks, “And what are you
planning to do if you do manage to breech them?”
“I've
always believed that actions speak louder than words. Pull 'em down
and I'll show you.”
“Ooh,
you silver-tongued charmer, you.” Obligingly, she wriggles on his
lap, kicking off her shoes and working the tights down her legs.
“I
think you should put the shoes back on.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
When she does, he wonders briefly why he hasn't thought of this
before.
“I
never knew the executive look worked for you. Should I be worried
about all those women in your office?”
“Not
as long as you wear those shoes at home. You might take your hair
out of that ponytail too.”
“Ooh,
Miss Jones.”
“I
think that's my line.”
She
wraps her arms around his neck and plants a kiss on his mouth.
“Let's get on with that demonstration then.”
“Quite
the forward little wench, aren't you? All right, if we must. Let's
start at the very beginning.”
“A
very good place to start.” Now she is nuzzling his neck. She
likes the faint, familiar smell of the soap he always uses.
“Ah
yes, Maria, exactly. When you read, you begin with ABC, but with sex
you begin with -”
He
slides his hand under her blouse and up over her breast. She
shivers.
“Goodness
me.”
“Oh
very good. Goodness me.” He strokes her skin and she smiles,
pleased.
“Trip?”
“Ruth?”
“Do
you think we should go upstairs to continue this demonstration?”
“We
could do. It might be more comfortable on the bed, offer a little
better access to important areas. As long as you keep the stilettos
on.”
“We'll
get the sheets dirty.”
“I
truly hope so. Anyway, isn't that what the washing machine's for?”
“I
can't think of a better use for it.”
“Come
on then, onwards and upwards. Shall we take the sherry with us? We
may be some time.”
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