Although Jo took Ann to the same area several more times following their encounter with the voyeur, the man never reappeared. At least, not physically. But he remained vivid in Ann's imagination. At home, Roger's attentions continued to be spasmodic and unsatisfying, and while meetings of the Friday Flower Club, supplemented by private sessions with Jo, delivered orgasms of varied intensity, Ann was growing conscious of something missing.
Eventually she raised the subject during a period of rest and recuperation at the Club. When she was reticent to provide detailed answers to questions from her friends, Jo took over. She had no hang-ups about describing the way the man had peered into the car,going on to ejaculate into the silk knickers Jo handed out of the window. Jo's theory, she explained, was that Ann had been reminded that there was more to sex than could be generated by six middle-aged, middle class women in a suburban drawing room, immensely enjoyable though that was.
"What you mean," said Marjorie, "is she needs a proper fuck."
The word was not unfamiliar to the women. After all, it had become virtually commonplace in books and films; but it was not a part of their daily vocabulary, and this was the first time it had been spoken at a Club meeting. Now it had come from a sleek, sophisticated, fifty-something blonde who was reclining in an armchair with one hand inside the waistband of an expensive pair of black knickers. Around the room, her friends were in similar states of post-orgasmic wind-down. This was no gathering of prudes. Just as Marjorie's forthright frankness many weeks earlier had started them on their current path, so it now challenged their individual boundaries. As before, and emboldened now by accumulated experiences with tongues and fingers and more mechanical aids, no one was prepared to be the first to back away.
"She needs a man who will shag her senseless, get her on her back and give her what she's been missing." Marjorie was warming to her theme.
"But isn't that why we've been getting together?" asked Helen. "Besides, sometimes a woman can offer something - not just different, but special."
"You mean we've become a club for lesbians?" The question, from Sylvia, provoked a sharp response from Ann.
"No. I am certainly not a Lesbian. It's just that Roger doesn't offer me the fulfilment I need and desire. But I haven't got the courage to look for a guy to help with sex on the side. Not with all the problems that could bring with it."
Marjorie summed up. "In short she needs a good fuck but she's not going to get it here."
"Perhaps she could."
The speaker was Cynthia, a petite brunette whose small, pointed breasts and compact buttocks encased in flimsy lime-green had been subjected to intimate attention only minutes earlier. At forty-three, Cynthia was the youngest member of the Club by almost a decade. She was also unique among them in that she was a divorcee; her original reason for joining was not the shortcomings of a husband but the complete absence of any man in her private life. Recently, that had changed in unexpected circumstances. Hence her intervention. She was aware it could make her the most popular member of the Friday Flower Club.
Marjorie's eyes gleamed. She spoke for them all. "How?"
Cynthia pondered how to continue.
"How?" Marjorie prompted. "Just tell us."
"Dariusz."
"Dariusz?"
***********************************
When Cynthia's husband wanted to trade her in for a younger model with bigger breasts and dextrous agility in the back seat of a Jaguar, the court awarded Cynthia control of the chain of hairdressing salons and beauty parlours they had owned jointly. Overnight she became a businesswoman. Over the next few months she became a remarkably successful business woman.
Her strength was in recognising what she could not do, and solving it by delegation. One of the first areas to take her attention was finance. The company ticked over reasonably efficiently but she detected a lack of drive. Tony had built it to the point that it delivered an income that paid the bills and left a surplus for his hobbies: sailing, golf and travel. Tony's departure removed from the equation the substantial cost of his boat together with a weakness for flying first class.
For the time being the newly created balance was sitting on the books, earning modest interest and overseen by the company's Finance Director, a fancy title bestowed by Tony. In reality, Cynthia concluded, he was an overpriced bookkeeper who needed to be replaced. Which was how Dariusz came into her life.
The quarterly audit was done by a firm from Leeds. An accountant would travel over to the company offices, spend a day-and-a half with the books and report any problems. Cynthia resented having to pay his overnight hotel bill. She resolved to do something about it but wasn't sure how. In the event, she was pre-empted.
On the first audit day of her independence, Cynthia was away interviewing potential staff recruits at a salon that had been under-performing. Returning to her office at the end of the afternoon, she found a message on her desk to say that the accountant had completed the audit. If she had a moment to spare, he would like to introduce himself before returning to Leeds.
Intrigued as well as pleasantly surprised, she asked for him to be sent in. The surprise continued when a tall young man entered, shook hands with just the hint of a bow, and introduced himself as Dariusz Piotczynski. He told her he had worked at the accountancy firm's London headquarters for two years; recently he had been transferred to Leeds. Examining Cynthia's books had been straightforward. Everything was in order and had been signed off. However ...
While Dariusz had been speaking, Cynthia had listened with only half her mind. Predominantly, she found herself assessing Mr Piotczynski, however he pronounced it. Or spelt it for that matter. She was taking in a man she guessed to be not much older than thirty, wearing a dark suit that suggested rather more style than went with her image of accountants, his hands folded calmly in his lap. Regular features and a strong jaw line. Clean shaven. Jet black hair neatly cut. And dark, intense eyes.
Startled, Cynthia suddenly became aware of the unfinished sentence. "I'm sorry," she said. "You were saying?"
