For the first time since I began writing these rambling tales I have had an accomplice.
So, for her keen editorial eye and assistance, insight and all-round general support and encouragement, I dedicate this story to my new friend T., in Kentucky, USA.
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This story is copyright Rem Innes ©MMVI, and may not be reproduced without explicit written permission. -----
(Although this story stands alone it does briefly refer to the first two instalments of Miss Jameson)
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My name's Jim; I'm 34, 6 foot, average build and looks, single, footloose and fancy-free. I'm a doctor – specialising in orthopaedics in a private clinic in London. I drive a black Mercedes SL55 AMG sports car, and own my own flat in a block in an upmarket area of South West London.
After the revelation of Miss Jameson's latent sexuality on Friday evening, and the interlude with her friend Betty Williams, I was eager to continue this voyage of discovery with older women in general, and Miss Jameson in particular.
Having a really hectic working week and late nights at the clinic, I neither saw nor heard from any of my neighbours until the following Thursday.
Arriving home late again, I opened my flat door and was confronted by the usual pile of correspondence. Standing out in this pile of (largely) junk mail was a light blue, delicately scented envelope. Intrigued, I rapidly tore it open, and was pleasantly surprised to find it contained an invitation to dinner at Hermione Jameson's the following evening.
As it was after 11pm I decided against calling her; instead I quickly penned an acceptance, which I placed in an envelope and quietly slid it under her flat door.
The following evening, showered, shaved and shining I knocked on her flat door at the appointed time, armed with a decent bottle of champagne and a bouquet of mixed summer flowers, the centrepiece being one long-stemmed red rose.
As she opened the door, my jaw dropped in astonishment:
WOW!
There she stood in a semi-formal mid-length, "classic" black dress with an exquisite diamond encrusted broach pinned on her left upper chest, black stockings and gleaming patent leather shoes.
Her face positively glowed, and her eyes radiated happiness, albeit with perhaps a touch of hesitation.
Her hair, usually tightly bound and pinned, flowed freely down to her shoulders – the mixed silver and black perfectly matching her attire.
As she ushered me in to her flat I caught the subtle aroma of what could only be some form of Chanel scent.
The whole effect was intoxicating. This surely was not the Ice Spinster?
Struggling for the right words (which never seem to come at the right time do they?) I muttered a very lame, "You look absolutely beautiful!"
Lame it may have been, but it seemed to have the right effect, as her face broke into a huge smile.
When I handed her the bouquet she murmured, "They're lovely, but you shouldn't have.."
"Nonsense," I replied. "They are a poor substitute to your beauty, but I hope you like them."
Smiling, she ushered me into her dining area, bade me to sit down at a table already set for two, then went off into her kitchen, murmuring something about putting the flowers in water.
The next hour or so passed in what seemed to be a continuous blurry moment, as we ate an exquisite meal of who knows what, drank our way through the bottle of champagne by toasting everything and anything; then also put away the best part of a bottle of Australian shiraz.
Eventually, and feeling no pain whatsoever, we moved into her living area for coffee and a liqueur.
"Thank you for a wonderful meal and evening", I said as I took her in my arms. Bending down slightly I gently kissed her on her lips, which remained stubbornly closed.
Sensing her fear and general level of discomfort, I sat down next to her on her comfortable settee, and said, "That kiss was a simple thank you for a lovely meal in delightful company. You do realise that I am NOT going to force myself upon you, don't you? If you have had second thoughts about following on from last Friday night, then so be it."
"I will, of course, be extremely disappointed, but I can live with it." I continued.
"I'm sorry," she cried. "I have loved every minute of our meal tonight. Yet, at the same time I have dreaded this moment. I absolutely loved your attention last Friday, but it seems I cannot get Ronald and his self-seeking abusive attitude out of my mind – even after all these years."
"Then there's the difference in our ages", she continued.
"What relevance does that have", I quickly replied.
"Well.... I am at least 20 years older than you," she replied.
"So what? I could have sworn that I was the teacher and you the pupil last Friday. Age had nothing to do with what happened then, did it?"
"No-oo I suppose not," she reluctantly conceded.
"Then there was the chemistry between us", I continued. "You seemed to become overwhelmed with the emotional reactions my ministrations caused."
"The feelings you evoked in me were wonderful," she admitted.
"And, of course, you always have the magic "STOP" button, if you feel you are entering territory you are not comfortable in or with."
"So you say" she replied.
"Believe me, you do," I reiterated. "The last thing any man should do is force himself on a lady purely for sex."
"An old female family friend of my parents said something to me when I was in my teens which has always lurked in the back of my mind," I continued. " And that is: 'sex for its own sake with someone you don't really care for is simply masturbation in the womb.' In other words if all you want is physical release then go and do it yourself – don't demean a woman purely for your own release."
"Really! She said that? She must have been some woman," replied Hermione.
"She still is." I replied. "She's well into her eighties now, and still tells it like it should be. She also said to me 'If you ever sleep with a woman just because she's there' come and tell me what your reactions were.
About a year after that conversation I slept with a beautiful Australian redhead whom I chatted up in the West End. One thing led to another and we ended up back at my flat. After we had finished I just wanted to get up and run away – it was just emotionless, and not very good sex. The problem was we were in my flat, so I had to endure it until the morning, when I couldn't get rid of her fast enough".
"That sounds like Ronald – running away afterwards," said Hermione. "So, did you tell your ageing friend?"
"Oh yes," I replied. "And that's when she reiterated the comment about masturbation in the womb."
"So, what would it be with you and me?" she hesitantly asked.
"I don't know exactly, but I do know that it wouldn't purely be sex for its own sake." I replied honestly. "However, I do know that we both thoroughly enjoyed what happened last Friday night, didn't we?"
