A Glass of Chablis

Ivy Reid stepped from the train onto the platform along with the other commuters and fell in with the tide flowing towards the exit. This was a new experience: the London suburban commute. She had caught the train from the station in the morning and had found her way back in the evening. As she walked, she buttoned her coat, a chilly wind was blowing. What a day, her first at her new job. She had liked it, liked it very much, the people and everything. Unlike the day before nothing had gone wrong... though, all things considered, the day before had turned out not to be the disaster it had so nearly been. Once she had stepped through George Crombie's front door all had been well. He was not hurrying her on either; not saying she needed to leave and find a place. He had said just that again over breakfast, had said it would not be a problem for him and, to be fair, he had not said it with the hope of more sex with her: he had already suggested her staying a few days before she had... was it really seduced him? Well, it had all been so very comfortable before the fire and with the old gentlemen reading Lady Chatterley and all, and his erection coming, or rather poking out through his dressing gown; she shrugged, it had been nice. What would her friends have said, what would her boyfrie... Ivy stopped dead in her tracks and the man behind her bumped right into her.

"Sorry," she said. The man was about to say something probably less than complimentary about women who stop suddenly in the street when he just shrugged his shoulders, "No matter," he said and walked on past her. Perhaps he had decided she was someone well worth bumping into and making rather physical contact. Certainly, he was rather more her type than George Crombie - much closer to her age for one thing. Ivy smiled at the retreating figure and then frowned at the reason she had stopped. Boyfriend? She had no boyfriend. Did not want to see him again and as for that so called 'best friend,' not her either. How much did she care what they thought of her having sex with a man old enough to be her grandfather? Nothing. He was not her grandfather after all - she had liked him, her real grandfather, the one she had known; long gone alas. Ivy started walking again. She would have sex with George Crombie again that night. She did not care what they thought. It was almost defiance.

The knot of commuters was thinning out as she turned at another junction towards George Crombie's house. She had been careful to remember the way that morning. It would not do to get lost.

Would the old gentleman want to spank her? She had teased him with the idea the night before. She smiled to herself. He had been so good to her. Perhaps she should insist. A knock at his door and there was George Crombie opening it and greeting her. Would she like a cup of tea, might he take her coat, how had the day been, did she find the travelling difficult? What a gentleman he was, what a delight, how good to be welcomed back like that. Such a sweet old boy. Yes, she very much would like a cup of tea.

Returning with a tray - and were those really china cups and saucers and did anyone still use a teapot, let alone a tea cosy? It was all so very different from her stoneware mugs, packed somewhere in the boot of her car.

"Did you have any plans for the evening, Ivy, perhaps you met someone at your new job? A girl suggesting you go to the pictures. A nice boy perhaps, I'd like to think of you getting over..."

Ivy smiled, what a nice old boy to think that, "No, it's too far back up into town," already she was getting the local patois, calling London 'town.' I did meet some nice girls there and, perhaps, but boys... Nope, not going to go down that route for a while. So, I've..." her pause was deliberate as were her choice of words, "nothing on this evening."

For a moment George Crombie sat there as if uncertain what to say, a smile and a slight raising of the eyebrows indicated he had decided her words were very deliberate, "I'd better put some more coal on the fire then. Don't want you catching a chill! Do tell me about your day."

And she told him; he was ready to listen and she keen to recount how it had all been. How she had very much liked the place, the work and the people. She very much hoped it was going to be OK. A fresh start; and a fresh start was what she needed.

"So, no need for a spanking," she said.

"Spanking?" He looked puzzled

"You said if the job didn't go well and I was a naughty girl then..."

"Did I really?"

"Like a schoolboy."

"More a schoolgirl, Ivy!"

It was good to laugh. So very different from how it had been on the road the day before and when she had broken down. All so very different. Warm, dry and with a second cup of tea.

"Would you like to spank me even though I've been a good girl? I don't mind. I think I'd like it even if you wouldn't."

"What man..."

What man, indeed. Ivy rather thought the man who had bumped into her might very much have liked to chastise her for her unthinking stop. Would very much have liked to take her over his knee; perhaps taken her home and seen to her properly; given her a good spanking and maybe sought to teach her a lesson or two.

George Crombie, though, was there, was sitting opposite her in his cavalry twill trousers, chequered shirt, tie and Harris tweed jacket. Ivy finished her tea, stood up, came across to him and carefully knelt and bent herself over his knee, bottom very much uppermost.

"Oh, well, this is most, um, unexpected and, err, very nice." She felt his hand resting on her bottom as if unsure. "Are you sure? I mean, you haven't done anything wrong at all and..."

"Spank me. When have you had the opportunity?"

"Well, never. Very well."

The hand left her bottom and then came down, not with a great deal of force behind it though it did rub her bottom through her skirt afterwards. Perhaps to make it feel better or perhaps because the old man liked the idea of stroking young girls' bottoms.

"Come, George, you can do better than that. And shouldn't my bottom be bare?"

"Yes, Ivy, I suppose that's the drill. In that case, I'd better..."

Ivy felt her skirt being lifted, slowly and very deliberately and then placed up and over her back.

"Has that made you hard, George?"

"Of course it has! Crumbs, Ivy, this is almost bad for an old man."

"Heart racing?"

"Very much so."

"That's good, a bit of exercise. Aerobic exercise. More later!" George Crombie was rolling down her thick woollen tights, so good to wear in winter weather if not quite the same as sheer stockings and a suspender belt for the man. She lifted herself and they were rolled all the way to her knees. "Knickers?" she asked.

No doubt so good for the old man to gradually lower her knickers and reveal inch by inch her bottom. Ivy felt them being pulled further and further downwards, off her bottom and down her thighs. She was smiling, he could not see that, but she was. It really amused her what she was doing, teasing the old man, giving him a stand. It was nice, a good feeling, giving him pleasure, but it was still funny what she was doing; even if, all of a sudden, the hand descended again, and it hurt. He really had smacked her on her bare behind and quite hard. Doing it properly, indeed! Another and then a third.

"Shall I perhaps go and have a quick bath and then come down. Would you like that? Me wrapped in a bath towel. Don't go away."

"Do, Ivy, there's plenty of hot water. No need to hurry. I'm not going anywhere. Most certainly not. But, I think, perhaps dinner is more what we need. It is getting late."

"I'll do dinner tomorrow; I'll buy on the way home." She was still over his knee, his bare palm now gently rubbing her smarting cheek.

George Crombie busied himself in the kitchen. It would be rather more than beans on toast. He had been to the shops especially. It was good to have a visitor, good to cook for two. That did not happen so often now. Doris did not like going out and other friends did not like to be out after dark. He thought of young Ivy upstairs in her bath. Really, he should not be having such thoughts, yet what with the unexpectedness of the yesterday, her astride him in his chair and now her readiness to be spanked. Lascivious thoughts of young girls were anything but uncommon with older men but with Ivy they seemed permitted! He would be in no hurry to see her depart. Poor girl, what an awful experience with that ex-boyfriend and her best friend and the car breaking down and all. He was so pleased her first day at her new work had gone well. He wondered what her likes and dislikes were in food. He should have asked her. Maybe his repertoire would be a little old fashioned for her.

It was a pleasant little supper, George Crombie listened as Ivy talked about her new job and all sorts of things. He was interested to know more about her. They watched the news on television and then George said it was really time for him to get ready for bed. He had a routine after all.

"Would you like me to sleep with you?"

"I don't think..."

"Certainly, I'll come into your bed to start with. You could spank me some more."

"Let's have a bedtime drink first."

George bathed and got into his pyjamas and dressing gown as he always did. He came slowly down the stairs holding on to the bannister. It would not do to fall down and bruise himself or worse break a leg. Not with the prospect of young Ivy insisting on visiting him in bed. Unlike other nights he made two mugs of cocoa, one for him and one for his lovely young visitor. Ivy had already changed, was in her dressing gown when he brought the cocoa in. He had not heard her go upstairs to change. She was sitting, with legs crossed, reading.

"What have you found to interest you?" He looked across at her and thought how charming she looked, not simply sexual, but a charming young woman. She did seem to wear that dressing gown well but, there again, she probably wore most things very well.

"Another of your naughty books."

"Ah!"

"Beatrice - by Anonymous. A Victorian story, apparently. Very, um, well very... I like it. I'm sure you did."

George smiled but said nothing. It had certainly been a pleasure for him to read that book by his fireside. He had warmed his penis - or 'pintle' in the words of the book - by the fire most certainly. It had been read more than once. He placed the mug of cocoa by Ivy.

"Shall I read aloud?"

A delight to be read to; an especial delight to be read erotica by a young girl.

"Three in a bed sex, George, how naughty. I've never done that."

'Edward laid his hand on my thigh. He moved my nightgown up inch by inch. He touched. into my fur, my nest, he touched. The lips were oily, soft. I did not move. His hand on the other side of him moved. I could feel the sheet fluttering there.

Our eyes were all open. I did not look but I knew. Soft, wet sounds. I tried not to move my bottom. Would the maid enter to remove the tray? Edward's fingertips found my button. I felt rich, forlorn, lost. My legs stretched down and widened. My toes moved. On the other side of him the sheet fluttered still.

Edward moved. His finger was oily with my oily. He moved on his hip and turned towards me. I felt the pronging of his prong. His hand cupped my nest. "Kiss good-night, Beatrice."

His voice was above me, yet far away - a husk blown on the wind. I moved my face sideways to his. "Yes, kiss good-night," Angela said. Her voice was far away - a leaf floating on the sea. His mouth met mine. His charger quivered against my bared thigh. Fingers that were not my fingers ringed the stem of his cock. His finger entered me. I moved not. Our mouths were pasted together, unmoving. I was running through meadows and my father was chasing me. My mother and my sister, Caroline, were laughing. I screeched. Their voices drifted away on to the far horizon and waved there like small flags. Moving my hand I encountered Angela's hand - the rings upon her fingers that ringed around his cock. I moved my mouth away from Edward's and stared up at the ceiling. It had gone high, gone high again. Birds drifted through it. Edward's hand eased my thighs wider. I lay limp, moist in my moistness. The bed quivered as if an engine were running beneath it. I found my voice. "Kiss good-night," I said. My mind was not blank.'

"I like the words, the images and phrases. She's so relaxed, so only half there, not really doing anything..."

"Languid," said George Crombie." The images and words had affected him. Already his penis was erect within his dressing gown and pyjamas. He watched as Ivy uncrossed one leg and put it over the other. Was that a movement indicating arousal, 'moist in her moistness' as the anonymous author had written apparently back in the nineteen hundreds?

Ivy was looking at him, "Nest - what a nice word for... and 'his finger was oily with my oily,' your finger will be like that I think." She made that delicious little shrug girls make when grinning. "In a bit. Let me read on. So bad having two women in the bed. Finding another woman's hand on Edward's cock - 'ringed around his cock.' Ivy licked her lips.

'There was coloured paper in it. A kaleidoscope. I watched the swirling, the patterns. Would love come? Edward turned. His knob burned in his turning against my thigh. His nightgown was fully raised. His lips fell upon Angela's. Her hand held his cock still. At first she lay motionless. The sheet moved, tremored, rippled up and down. In her breathings were the secrets of the passageways at night. Edward groaned in his groaning. The meshing of their lips. I heard their tongues. Voices. "Edward - no, not now!" They were speaking in ordinary speech. "Oh, you bad boy!"

The sheet became tented. I felt the opening of her thighs - the warmth exuding from her thick-furred nest. Her bottom shifted, nicking the sheet, smack- bounce of flesh to flesh. Her knees bent. Between her thighs she encompassed him. Small wet sounds. Slithery sounds. I held my legs open. I was gone, lost. They did not know me.

The bed heaved, shook. I turned my head. I looked as one looks along a beach at other people. Did I know them?

Her nipples stood like tiny candles in brown saucers, laved by Edward's tongue. Her hands gripped his shoulders. Her eyes and lips were closed as if she were communing. Between her thighs his loins worked with febrile jerkings. Tiny squishing sounds. Her bottom began to move, jerking to his jerks. Expressionless I moved the sheet down with my foot. It wrinkled, crinkled, slid away, betraying the curves of her calves. His mouth buried her mouth beneath his mouth. Her hands clawed his back. Their movements became more frenetic. The pale pistoning of his pintle cock.'

"Oh George, how unfair. They have forgotten her." Ivy suddenly stood, as if indignant at the thought, and came over to George and sat on the cushioned arm of his armchair, her thighs astride. "Shall we see what happens next. Might you, with your fingers..." A grin at him, "my oily?"

'Moaning in the night. Bliss of it. Was there bliss of it? I wanted to be held down. I wanted a straw to chew or a piece of long sweet grass whose root is white.

Angela was panting. It was a rough sound. The squelching of his indriving, outsucking. His balls smacked her bottom. The sound pleased me. Through their puffing cheeks the working of their tongues. "Ah! dearest, let me come!"

Edward raised himself on forearms, loins flashing. Her hands clutched his arms. I was looking. Sideways along a cloud, a beach. The lamps were lit still. Had they forgotten the lamps?'

George's hand had come to Ivy's thigh, had parted the wool of her dressing gown and moved over the soft skin, seeking to delve. His fingers moved lightly and slowly. There was no need for haste. She had asked him to touch, to find. Her thighs were warm and as his hand moved upwards, he felt the softness not just on the front of his hand but the back. Thighs taper and come together. It was warm and wet there. Oily indeed! The easy wetness of young girls.

"Oh, Edward!" Kiss good-night. He collapsed, he shuddered, in his quivering quivered. Her calves rose and gripped his buttocks. A final thrust, indriven to the root. He seep'd in his seeping, his jetting done. Like balloons bereft of air they collapsed. They were quiet. I could hear the ceiling. The floor creaked. Was the bed coming undone?

Edward rolled between us and was quiet. The night was done. The limp worm of his penis-pole lolled wet against my thigh. Sticky. It oozed. It was too small now for my nest.'

"Too small for her nest. Shame. I don't suppose yours is too small at all! That feels so good. In, push them in. Yes!" Ivy leaned over and parted George's dressing gown. His pyjamas were tented, the stripes pushed upwards by his penis. With the open fly it only required a little tug to one side of the trousers to pull the opening across and out it popped up through the hole. George Crombie's erection, strong, peeled and full. The so different organ from the female. "Mmmm, George, that is what I like to see, a big, filling cock." Her eyes turned back to the book, "oh good, she is going to get her turn!"

'In the night he stirred and mounted me. Drowsy in coils of sleep I did not resist. The oil lamps flickered low. Did she watch? From moment to moment I jerked my bottom in long memories of knowing. I wore drawers in my dreams. My bottom was being smacked. It was being smacked because there was a cock in me. In our soft threshings my legs spread. My ankle touched hers. She did not stir. Our feet rubbed gently together. Our toes were intimate.

Edward worked his work upon me and was done. The spurtings came in long, strong trills of warmth. Warm wet. Sperm trickled down my thighs. I lay inert. I had not come. He had not pleasured me. My nipples were untouched.'

"Oh, no! I thought they... oh, she leaves him in the morning. I'm not surprised. I wonder where she goes? Would you like me to read some more? Some good bits?" Ivy flicked the next few pages and wrinkled her nose, "not quite the same." She flipped further, well into the book, "ah! This looks more like it."

"Did Uncle kiss you?" I asked. She shook her head. Her cheeks were bright red. "Or feel your thighs?" I added. Her gasp sounded within my mouth as I drew back her neck and kissed her. My hand sought her corsage. There was a loose button.

Her nipples were stiff.

Loosing second and third buttons, my small hand squeezed within. The jellied mounds of her breasts were firm and full-only a trifle smaller than my own. Caroline struggled, but I am stronger than she. She endeavoured to raise her arms between us but the enclosure of my arm was too tight. Her lips made petal shapes of helplessness. Her breath was warm. My hand slipped down, cupping the luscious gourd. The ball of my thumb flicked the nipple.

"Between your thighs, Caroline," I murmured. I did not say of what I spoke, nor of whom I spoke. Her head shook violently. Her eyes were lighthouses. "In your mouth? The smooth, hot knob?" I teased. Her expression became rigid with surprise. Her head fell back. I licked my tongue along her teeth and, laughed. I released her, leaping to my feet. "How foolish we are!" I laughed. I turned and went before my disguise melted. I had never taken it in my mouth.

Caroline's mouth was so often petulant. It would have fitted perfectly. The rose and the stalk. I would have hidden and watched her sin. The delicate oozing of her mouth upon the rampant conqueror - balls pendant on her cupping palm. Her eyes would be half closed, lashes fluttering.'