AS I looked into the trunk of the car, something touched the back of my leg and I jumped, banging my head on the trunk lid. Turning around rubbing my head, I was met by a spaniel looking up at me, its huge eyes apologising.
"Ow," I said, glaring down at the cause of my pain.
The spaniel blinked and looked for all the world as if he was smiling.
Behind him, at the end of a long lead, was a woman with her hand over her mouth and her eyebrows raised: "I am. So Sorry," she said. In two distinct sentences.
"No problem," I said, still rubbing my head and smiling politely. "He was just being friendly." I turned back to the trunk and continued attaching the fishing reel to the rod.
The woman arrived next to me: "Let me see," she said, reaching for my face with both hands and tilting my head down. "It's grazed," she said. "You can fish later, we need to have a proper look at your head now."
It was then that I realised we had met before, only never this close. She walked her dog along the riverbank and often passed me at some point, either as I was putting my rod together at the car or later, while I was walking along the river to my favourite spot. Either she would nod to me, or I to her. Never more than polite pleasantries. Quite a bit older than me, she was square and solid looking, with short, grey hair cut in a masculine, spiky style. She was also tall for a woman, the same height as me and her cheeks were outdoors ruddy, with a band of freckles running over her nose
I looked at her, a little confused, but before I could say anything, she was winding the spaniel's lead around her hand to shorten it and barking orders: "Come on. It's only a short walk. Won't take a minute. Shut the lid. Lock it. Come on. Give me your arm, you might have concussion. Do you feel dizzy? Blurred vision?"
"I don't have..." I started, but she cut me off: "That's what people who have concussion always say, 'I'm fine' and then half an hour later they go down like a ton of bricks."
With my right arm in her firm grip, we set off away from the car and the river and in less than a minute arrived at the front door of a Georgian townhouse. Looking up and down the street first, she handed me the dog's lead and said: "Hold George," while she opened the front door. Taking the lead from my hand, she pulled me into the hallway, kicked the door closed, and walked me into the living room. We stopped in front of a large, brown leather sofa: "Sit down," she said, "and let's have a proper look at your head."
As I was lowering myself onto the sofa, she took my head in both hands again and pushed in front of me, her knees between mine, our jeans brushing against each other. Her fingers moved through my short hair, nails gently scraping my scalp. My face was pressed against her canvas waterproof jacket. "I have something for that," she said, "keep an eye on George. I'll be back in a minute."
Her nails trailed across my scalp and then she walked hurriedly across the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
"Hello George," I said, stroking the spaniel's head in much the same way my own head had just been stroked. Above me, there was a thump on the ceiling, and then another, in a different place. What on earth was she doing? I looked around the room. Everything I looked at said "money". The clock on the mantlepiece. The mantlepiece itself. The furniture. The bookcase. I stood up and walked towards it. George followed, his paws patting the polished wooden floor. Above me, the ceiling continued to bang and thump. The books were impressive. All of the classics I have yet to read. There was another thump on the ceiling and the sound of a drawer slamming shut. She was getting changed. My imagination went to work. Lingerie. Heels. Soon, she would return transformed and then...just as I became aware the banging on the ceiling had stopped, the living room door opened behind me: "That's better," she said, her chest rising and falling rapidly, as if she was out of breath.
"Jeans and walking boots are comfortable," she continued, "but they're not really me." Standing barefoot in the doorway, she was wearing a loose-fitting, beige kaftan that reached almost to the floor. My emotions were a mixture of disappointment and relief, but mainly disappointment that my short-lived fantasy was not to be. That kind of thing doesn't happen in the real world. She was going to put some antiseptic lotion on my scalp and send me on my way with an aspirin. And that's about as sexy as it would get. I sighed in resignation.
George, who had been sitting at my feet, ran to his mistress. "Go to your basket George," she whispered, closing the door behind him. She turned the light switch on at the wall next to the door and walked to the window, drawing the blinds: "We need better light," she said, making her way briskly to the sofa, bare feet squeaking on the polished wooden floor. Gathering up the folds of the kaftan, she sat down, a green plastic box bearing a first aid symbol in her lap, "and you can take your coat off - it's not that cold in here..."
As I sat down next to her, she shuffled closer and took my head in her hands again, tilting it down and repeating the earlier inspection. As she leant forward with her arms reaching towards me, the low neck of her kaftan opened up, so that I was staring down into her enormous cleavage and beneath that, the top of one of her thighs. Beneath the kaftan she was naked. At that moment, she reached a little farther and both breasts swung into view. At the same time, air from inside the garment billowed out, bathing me in her fragrance. I caught my breath.
One of her hands left my head and went to the back of my neck and began stroking it gently. Placing her other hand under my chin, she raised my head and stared into my eyes. For the first time I saw she was wearing full make-up; bright red lipstick and dark eyeshadow "I don't think I need to put anything on it," she whispered. I could feel her breath on my face; soft odours of coffee and mint. Lowering my head again, she planted a soft kiss on my scalp: "Just this, maybe. There, that's better," she breathed. Then she leant closer and kissed the top of my forehead and smiled: "Would you like me to carry on?" Her words were so quiet I wasn't sure if they were real or inside my head. Her eyes were mesmerising. "I'll take that as a 'yes'," she whispered. My head was swimming. "I'm Ann by the way," she breathed and then she tilted her head to one side and lightly kissed my top lip.
With our faces almost touching, she stared into my eyes again and smiled: "I like it that you're shy." Her voice was a faint whisper, but her breath on my face was becoming heavier. "Just relax, everything'll be fine...I want us to be friends...can we be friends?"
The hand on the back of my neck was no longer stroking, it was holding and then she slowly leant in and kissed me again, soft lips on mine, only this time she opened her mouth wide and pulled me into the deepest kiss I have ever experienced; her tongue filling my mouth, slowly twisting and turning and then she was pushing me backwards onto the sofa and climbing on top of me, my arms wrapping around her in a reflex reaction. Even if I had wanted to resist, I doubt it would have made any difference. Her right hand was between us on my crotch, roughly squeezing and kneading my erection and then it was on my belt buckle, fumbling and fiddling and then abruptly, she broke off, one foot on the floor, her other knee on the sofa, straddling me, she placed a hand at the top of my chest, just below my throat, pinning me down and used her other hand to unfasten the button at the waist of my trousers before tugging on the zip. It wouldn't move. "Take them down, pleeeeeeeeeze," she begged urgently, "no need to take them all the way off, just get them down."
