Warning this story was written in England by an Englishman. It utilises English vocabulary, spelling and grammatical conventions; some readers find these disturbing.
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Annabelle, a woman almost twice my age, had finally managed to seduce me at a dinner party. Once circumstances permitted us to slip away to her home, she had revealed just how unbridled her lust really was. That night her desires were apparently insatiable, her fires unquenchable. I could, of course, tell you about the rest of our weekend. The party was on the Friday evening, we woke up in bed together on the Saturday morning. Following some utterly delightful oral sex, as pledged the previous evening, Annabelle made it abundantly apparent the she knew that my diary was completely clear until the Monday morning and so was hers. She had arranged the almost impossible, a Saturday off work for herself: revealing that the little minx had pre-planned her assault. A recounting of what followed between us that weekend would be lewd and crude to the point of indecency but would also be repetitive, predictable and ultimately, dull.
As a compromise I'll précis. She took me on a tour of her house and we exploited the various features found in the different rooms to explore the pleasures of an extensive variety of sexual positions. You know! You liar! Oh yes you do. Coffee tables are really good for doggy. Kitchen worktops are the perfect height for her sitting, you standing. Easy chairs; she splays her legs over the arms, you kneel and... And well; finger, lick, screw and try combinations thereof. Bathrooms, we spent a long time in the bathroom, well: shower, bath, bidet; I ask you, the possibilities are and were endless.
The cellar was a bit creepy but it's quite amazing what you can do with a saw horse and a woollen blanket for padding! We also spent a prodigious amount of time exploring the many possibilities for a man and a woman to couple when supplied with a well padded saw horse. Naturally bed was best and she owned, at the very least, three of them. We allowed ourselves, at the least, one different position in each, most of them two; no I tell a lie, all of them at the very least two. My favourite was reversed cow girl. Annabelle's favourite was on her back, knees to her chest. For a woman in her forties Annabelle was amazingly flexible, unbelievably fit and improbably inventive: what I had failed to take into account, at that point, was that she was also very, very practised.
It was the following Wednesday evening, when Annabelle had suggested that I should return and, once again screw her silly, that our relationship evolved dramatically. I arrived all youth, eagerness and enthusiasm. In contrast, she was reserved and hesitant, almost shy. As we passed the open door of her dining room I noticed that the huge dining table was, quite literally, covered in papers. She intercepted the direction of my glance. "I was doing the books. I'm a bit down tonight; actually I'm bloody well depressed. Sorry but no matter how I work it, slowly but surely I'm going to go under. I'll last a half a year, perhaps a little more, but after that..."
"I can profile your accounts on the computer." I interrupted, rudely. "You can make savings; that's what I do! Everything will be alright," I chirruped, all upbeat and assured.
"It won't," she snapped back. She was trying not to cry and the effort of restraining herself was causing her to lose her temper.
"Tell me!" I was far too abrupt with her.
"You think you can do anything?" She snarled back.
"I can't if I don't know what the problem is." I softened my tone and took a deep breath, "maybe I can't, even if I do know what the problem is but at least I can listen."
"You must go. You must go right now. You can leave with the satisfaction of knowing that you have given me my best memory ever and that I'll never ever forget you." Her shoulders began to heave. She was sobbing quietly, yet trying her very best to suppress her all too evident distress."
"For God's sakes tell me!" I railed at her. "It's no skin off my bloody nose and you should realise I'm not stupid either. Take a break, spill the beans, open some wine and get it off your chest." I had lost it, "It would be best if I went wouldn't it?"
"Yes you damn well ought." My heart sank. "But only after I've opened the wine and we've drunk a stupid toast: I don't love you but I do want you, I desire you, I need you." I knew exactly how she felt. So whilst I sat, she shrugged and slunk off dejectedly to the kitchen. I was in despair. All my previous relationships had been fun and frolics, sex, light-hearted and fancy free. Full of meaningless decisions. Go out and screw later or to stay in and screw now? A weekend in Bath, or dinner for two somewhere really posh? The biggest crisis was when a girlfriend had skipped a period after she had gone on the pill. Not unusual, but at the time it appeared to the pair of us monumental. A potentially life changing concern, enduring an enforced marriage in wildest suburbia. But none of these experiences had prepared me, a lad of three and twenty, for coping with real life intruding upon sensual pleasure, sexual or otherwise: previously the two had always been easy to keep in their own, individual, isolated bins.
We sat in her spacious sitting room. Large glasses of fine wine in our hands, not white, nor red nor even rose; a dry (trocken), orange coloured wine from Germany; a wine with a happy sunshine on the label. At least something was happy, even if was only a cartoon. "What shall we toast? What ough't we cheer 'afore we pair of hapless lovers submit ourselves to the cruel and pitiless jests of the cruel fates."
A smile played upon Annabelle's quivering lips. She paused as she considered a rejoinder. "Prithee, good sir. Tarry a while longer; sup deeply and mayhaps join me in a second cup? And I? At thy command I will attempt to reveal the roots of my despairs."
It was my turn to laugh. By far she was the more accomplished of us at delivering cod Shakespeare; more conversant in its pleasantries and strictures. More ominously, I failed to realise, far quicker thinking than I could ever hope to be. This exchange also exposed the fact that, despite the disparity of our ages, we shared a common educational background: she at the beginning of its era - at least for girls - me near its end. Best of all, the ice had been broken. Annabelle was, once more, calm, composed and relaxed.
"My shop doesn't really make any profit these days. No one makes their own clothes now. We make our money selling wool and knitting patterns and women are now giving that up too! And it's getting worse. Things cost less and less and your staff request more and more. It's cheaper to buy ready made in a big store, from India, than make it yourself! Made in Hong Kong, made in Japan, I simply can't compete. I've been running the shop to keep my staff in a job for two years now. Two of the girls; well, their husbands are out of work, it would be a body blow if they lost their jobs."
Just to set things in context, 'her girls' were mostly in their forties and fifties, one in her sixties. 'The new girl' had been there for two years and would remain the new, idle girl till a new 'new girl' was hired. At that point the old 'new girl' would be promoted to the position of 'that lazy fat trollop' and all the other girls would shift up the ladder one rung. It also made me laugh because the current 'lazy fat trollop' was as skinny as a bean pole and a real grafter.
"It'll be the same for you soon, either Briggs and daughter will be the biggest distributors in the country or you and your boss will be looking for work yourselves! Why do I go to those shitty evenings that culminate in sordid wife swapping? I'll tell you why! It's because I'm as subjugated as you are. You have to humour Maurine and I have to humour those bastards because those are the bastards who prop my shop up. They order kinky stuff, occasionally for their wives, but more generally their lovers. I design and sew it and they pay for through the nose for it. Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful to you in ways that have nothing to do with last weekend. If it hadn't been so fulfilling, I would wish that last weekend had never happened so we could carry on like before. Don't fret, it was my best sex ever, you little donkey.
