I was walking through town, minding my own business. OK, let's be honest, I was, as usual, assessing talent. Well, thirty-odd years old, fairly 'normal' – whatever that means, what do you expect? It wasn't the hottest of days, so the local crumpet wasn't wearing the most daring of gear, but there was enough lunchtime totty about to keep the blood coursing through the veins, and I'd detected a few nice bra-less sights by the time I saw her.
She was forty if she was a day, a year or two my senior, there could be little doubt of that, and she was no super-model, although she
was
slim and elegant. A touch short to be a fashion model, however, she more than made up for it in other ways. The most noticeable was her hair. That hair! It was long and thick and straight, cascading right down to her waist, natural brown, with strands of grey growing through, which she had made no attempt to disguise, and which just added to the beauty of that gorgeous mane. Her face was, as far as I could tell, at the brief glance I had, thin and aquiline, with a faintly aristocratic air.
If I had dressed her myself, I should have chosen for her what she had on. She wore a cream silk blouse, with a little blue waistcoat open over it, and the waistcoat was matched by a pleated miniskirt, which came down to well above mid-thigh. Her long slim legs were bare, and she walked in sandals with prodigiously high metal needle heels. A heavy gold anklet encircled one shapely ankle, and a similar adornment clinked on her wrist as she passed by me. That I took all this in at a glance will tell you that I was instantly fascinated by this girl (woman, I should say)
I don't think of myself as a voyeur. OK, I was once guilty of watching the girl across the street, who didn't draw her curtains, get ready for bed, and jacked off on the strength of it – but show me a sixteen-year-old who wouldn't. And I like the odd bit of porn now and again. Red-blooded men who say they don't are:-
a) Liars
b) Possessed of a different configuration of chromosomes
or, c) Beyond my comprehension.
I digress. I felt a sudden compulsion, something quite alien to me, red-blooded as I claim to be, to turn about, and see where this creature was going. I wasn't in a particular hurry, anyway, and I don't know about you, but, although I don't believe in love at first sight, well,
lust
at first sight – now there's a thing!
Casually, I sauntered along behind her, slowly, because there was no way she could go fast on those heels. She turned into a Commercial Centre, and wandered hesitantly into a big superstore. I followed. She wasn't doing family shopping, as she didn't take a trolley, but picked up a red plastic basket. I did likewise, and followed at what I hope was a discreet distance. She stopped at some books, and idly picked up a paperback. I stopped and did similarly, but, over the top of it, I was sure she had clocked me, and glanced twice in my direction before returning the book to its place. Feeling a bit guilty now, I trailed her to the electrical department, where she browsed the radios and accessories, and I admired the smooth line of her thigh as she reached something off the shelf, and found myself dwelling on those amazing shoes. I also noticed for the first time that she had lovely thin delicate fingers, with long, manicured, red-painted nails, and several rings, including, unusually several on the second joints of her fingers. I had to stop myself from staring.
By now, she had certainly noticed, and she set off again, looking over her shoulder, shaking her long, lovely mane of hair out of her eyes, almost as if to make sure I was following. I was.
She stopped in a quiet row of household goods. I stood at the far end from her, making an unconvincing show of studying a bottle of bleach, and she quite deliberately put her still-empty basket on the floor, then bent over from the waist to pick up something – probably an aerosol, though I'll never know, or care – from the bottom shelf. As she did so, her legs were very slightly parted, and her tiny full skirt rose up, so that I had a perfect view of her completely naked, shaven pussy!
As she picked up whatever it was from the shelf, she looked back at me with a half-smile on her lips, and then straightened up, and the moment was gone. I was breathing as if I had just run a marathon, and couldn't think straight. What the fuck do you do now, Keith? You just can't let that go, can you? Or was it just a 'ship that passed in the night?' If so, some fucking ship!
Fate took a hand, as she often does. I was frantic. When I got to the check-out – no sign! She had taken flight. Oh shit!
Only a week later, I agreed, against my better judgement, to help my pal Harry with his electioneering. He was standing as a Labour councillor for the first time, and wanted somebody to dish out leaflets. Silly me said yes, and found myself in a big school hall waiting to be assigned to a partner with a bunch of leaflets.
Harry, wearing a big stupid rosette, and an even sillier smile, tapped me on the shoulder, 'Meet Virginia,' he said, 'she's your mate for tonight.'
You could have knocked me over with a feather. Virginia was none other than my dream-woman, the miniskirted, shaven-pussied object of my fantasies ever since that day in the superstore. But now she was dressed in jeans, a tee-shirt and leather jacket, wore sneakers, and had that marvellous hair tied back in a pony-tail. She greeted me coolly, 'Ginny,' she said, 'only my parents and my ex call me Virginia – that's why he's my ex.'
'That the only reason?' I asked.
'No,' she said, 'but it's all you're going to hear – for now.'
I liked the 'for now,' and I liked the same sort of half-smile she had directed at me in the superstore. Did she know I was the guy who had seen her pussy?
'Come on,' she was saying, and I realised she had an accent – what was it; educated Geordie? – 'let's go and help Harry!'
She held out a hand, which I took readily, finding her grasp cool, and getting a whiff, for the first time, of her fragrance – probably her shampoo, I thought – but even caught up as it was, her hair was magnificent, framing her strong features in a natural way.
She caught me looking at her, and smiled that half-smile again, 'I don't know your name,' she said.
'Keith,' I said, 'pleased to meet you, Ginny!' And I was.
We picked up two bags of leaflets and set off for our allotted quota of streets. Once there, we received a good deal of abuse, good-natured and otherwise, from local people, and even some encouragement from Harry's supporters, but, by about nine o'clock, we had exhausted our supply of leaflets. It was the moment I had been waiting for.
'How about joining me for dinner?' I asked, and I must have sounded nervous, as I realised I was terrified she would reject me.
'OK,' she agreed, 'but nothing fancy, eh?'
'Do you like Indian?' I asked.
'Love it,' she said, 'look, I live just around the corner. Let me show you where, and you can call for me in an hour, say. That alright?'
We walked down the street in the twilight, and she pointed out a neat little terraced house. I took my leave of her, and trotted off to collect my car from outside the hall and go home to spruce myself up.
When I got back to collect her, I couldn't get out of the car, as there were double yellow lines outside her house, and a police car lurking across the street, so I drew up and tooted. She had been stood at the door, and dashed out, slamming the door shut behind her, clicking down the path on her heels. She wore a long brown woollen cloak, the same shade as her hair, to keep out the cool night air, and sunk gratefully into my passenger seat as I pulled out into the evening traffic.
We chatted for the first time, and I found that she was a writer - though she was not forthcoming as to what she wrote - and that she lived alone, with a large, hungry cat for company.
When we arrived at my favourite restaurant, I was lucky enough to find a parking spot right outside, and the usual smiling waiter was on hand to take Ginny's cloak from her. I had to hold back a gasp when I saw what she was wearing. Her white silk dress had a halter-neck, so that two strips of thin material covered her breasts, but allowed a view of more than could simply be described as 'cleavage', the swell of her breasts clearly visible in the generous opening which plunged to her navel. The skirt was so tight, the material so thin, that she could not have worn anything under it. It was just above knee-length. A gold chain hung loosely about her waist, but otherwise she wore no jewellery. Her shoes were staggeringly high stilettos. She smelt of jasmine or something similar, and I was completely captivated. When we sat down, it was all I could do to take my yes off her for long enough to order the meal, and she smiled when she saw me looking at her tits.
'Do you like the way I dress, Keith?' she asked.
'Oh yes,' I replied.
'Good, because it made my ex very jealous. He used to make me cover myself up, and put a jumper on if I was dressed like this, for example.'
'I love the way you dress, Ginny,' I confirmed, and wondered if I should mention the episode in the superstore, but she beat me to it.
Looking at me slightly slyly, from under hooded eyelids, she said, 'You followed me in the supermarket, didn't you?' She saw my hesitance, and went on, 'Go on, you can admit it, I don't mind. I like to be looked at.'
I didn't know what to say, but her hand was on my thigh under the table, creeping up towards what was growing rapidly into an uncomfortable erection. I let her find her way there, and her eyes widened.
