Well Being and All That

Chapter One

"Can you do me a favour Del, I'm fucked," asked my mate Bob, over my land line one Saturday afternoon.

"Oh well, depends..."I joked.

"I'm stuck on the M27, the whole fucking motorway is closed due to a major crash and I'm getting the message down the line, we're going to be here for hours."

"Shit that's bad, it's been a regular occurrence for a few weeks now, but never known anyone caught up in one, you're the first - mate, any way you said favour?"

"Oh I've known two people, you know Stu, didn't he tell you...and Martin, he was nearly involved....anyway, Jackie's expecting me to pick her her up and there's no way I can. It'll be a great help mate."

"So where is she?" I asked, checking my desk diary. "I'm free," I tittered, as that chap on a TV sitcom used to. Bob chuckled.

"That Well Being class at Weeke parish hall, she goes to every month. It's their big piss up today as the main leader and yoga teacher is leaving. The session she's in is due to wind up at 4pm, they clear the hall for the drama group. Can you.......?"

"Yeah course I can, does she know?"

"I haven't got a signal here, fucking charming Vodaphone," Bob moaned. "It'll be great maybe if you call her, you've got her number, and let her know. You know what she's like ...you know... anxious."

I agreed and we finished the call and I clicked play on the video I was viewing, knowing I had a good half hour before I needed to leave the house, forgetting to call Jackie. I was so wrapped up watching naked ladies shower in a Russian communal room on the trusty old Hidden Zone voyeur website.

My Ford Mondeo eased into the traffic on the B3045 Worthy Lane, down to the Station approach traffic lights getting a green, cruised up Stockbridge Road. Under the main line railway bridge and on, finally then turning right into Stoney Lane. The modern brick building, was surrounded by cars, a few occupied by husbands and there were several ladies exiting. Some were in fitness gear, some in ordinary clothes and one blue rinse, a severe spectacled, tall woman in a smart business suit. They were nearly all of a certain age, as Bob puts it. I knew, having by chance clocked some travel documents, but they might have been previous, when I was taking them both to Bournemouth airport, his wife Jackie to be at least 70, not exactly, we never asked and she wouldn't tell being ultra protective of an image she had created when she arrived in our midst a few years back, having transferred her abode from near Manchester to Badger Farm estate to live with Bob. They finally married in Spain where she owns a villa in Murcia.

Jackie's image was always smart, well turned out, top to toe. Not trendy but entirely suitable for a lady of 'a certain age', her white hair coiffed to neck level, induced curls and a bit of a fringe. Plenty of make-up, always, never saw her without. A few of the gang reckoned subtle Botox lip work and definitely a boob job, but when? Several wrinkles collected round her mouth and eyes and there was definitely a double chin, but she was attractive in an elderly way. Her image was enhanced by her experience which she couldn't resist telling anyone, of being a professional dancer in her youth. She had worked with the legendary Pans People - a glamorous five female dance group on TV, had done a stint as a pole dancer, performed a high level of ballroom dancing competition with a partner, and even now danced weekly with a bunch of females from the gang Bob and I circulated in. Bob didn't dance and was happy to see her go for weekends sometimes, purely for dancing.

I saw her appear at the front door, her eyes scanning the vehicles for Bob's. I stepped out and approached her, having to negotiate past lots of dotty old elderly to fit middle aged women, making unsteady progress to their cars or their lifts. She caught sight of me with surprise etched on her face.

I told her the reason for me turning up after she had reached up, kissing me as usual. I smelt alcohol -- a lot. She tried to usher me inside the hall for some reason, but our way was blocked by several inebriated women, obviously the worse for wear following the farewell party.

"I hope that lot aren't driving Jac," I moaned, thumbing towards some of them almost fighting to get out and causing Jackie and I hindrance in entering. That's the thing I find with the mature and elderly people, lack of patience, as if they more than anyone else had little time and had urgent needs to be some where. Usually where I want to be!

"There'sh been a short of check and I think they're all accou....accounted for Del," she slurred. "Look there'sh Marion," Jackie giggled and waved, clutching my arm.

Marion Leadbetter was one of the crowd we circulated in. Her husband Pete administered a youth club and led several missions to outlying countries world wide.

"OK Marion?" I asked, getting a nod as she fumbled in her bag.

"Yesh thansh Delboy," she tittered in response. "Got a lift with Jo, wherever she ish...now where'sh my keysh?"

"You don't need them you shilly bitch," snickered Jackie. "Got a lift you shaid...."

"Oooh yeah," Marion chuntered, reaching up to plant another damp lipstick kiss on my cheek. That made her drop her huge leather Hermes bag, which luckily didn't spill the contents apart from her stout black leather purse, which she immediately snatched up and what I could see was a packet of Always Panty pads.

I admired the roundness of her 63 year old bum in a dark green tweed knee length skirt and as I did, my groin was swiftly clutched and released by a passing woman. I whirled to see the grinning winking face of Debbie McKilroy, another of the gang.

A divorced woman of 50 or thereabouts, Debs was always up for a laugh and I had groped her bum several times, without protest or being reported for inappropriate behaviour to anyone.

"She does have a nice bum Del eh?" Deborah whispered, Jackie and Marion too busy with sorting the bag. "Duty driver for once. Got to be off, taking some of them home, byeeee."

Off she trotted. Jackie resumed trying to pull me inside the hall against the tide as it were. I didn't mind, there were some tasty and not so tasty faces and figures exiting, plus I had plenty of time. I was puzzled why Jackie was taking me indoors and hoped it wasn't to do some sort of clearing or carrying. There were many ladies I recognised inside the bright spacious room which was airy but at the moment reeked of alcohol, perfume, hairspray, clothing and at one point incontinence.

"Do you mind helping Del?" came the warning. I thought so - and got down to marshalling bottles and glasses into trays and cartons Jackie indicated. "Bob would have done this so sorry, but as you're here, it'll be a great help. Mrs Passendale has too much to do with the remains of the buffet...

is that OK, you sure?"

"No problem Jac, got the rest of the day," I replied heartily, grabbing bottles, glasses and views of various bottoms and vast cleavage as I joined in with the helpers. I am quite partial to the charms of the mature female and can enjoy a lot of titillation, studying their movement, the way their clothing shifts round their bodies, the effects of underwear straps, numerous bulges of flesh, trim of ankles, wobbles and the intimate odours, but not the urine I ponged as I came round the hall.

Marilyn Staursburg sidled up to me in a pale blue tee-shirt, the straps of her brassiere clear to see. She hasn't got big tits. "So what's your game Del. Don't usually see you here. Getting amongst the older women, like me?" she chuckled, kissing me, then kneeling down on a portable pad to stack unused wine glasses in a crate. She stood out as much younger than the mass of women in and around the place, but I think she's nearly 50. Dirty blonde, quite tall, magnificent slender figure, fit until her athletic knees played up. She is a retired school mistress as is her husband Dave, a retired head master. Visions of her shapely bare legs, filled my space, the hem of her trendy light denim skirt nearly affording me a sight of her crotch, as she shuffled about on her knees, beneath me.

"Old women Marilyn, you're joking," I laughed, then, "Nice thong," I snickered. Glancing at the black sliver of cotton sneaking above the waist band of her skirt as she bent and reached for a crate. Marilyn rolled her eyes, shook her head, her tongue peeking out between her pursed lips on a concentrated expression, she stuck it out at me with a big vivacious smile and carried on with her chore.

Chapter Two

"Del, Mrs Passendale wants to meet you...in there," Jackie pointed to the kitchen. "She asked who you were, I told her and she just asked that's all. Nearly all done now, so go on, excused boots," she chuckled.

I sauntered across the hall, through a pair of double doors, towards the toilets and turned right into the hall kitchen. The lady who was expecting me, leaned unsteadily against the laminate worktop that surrounded me. There was a glass of white wine in danger of spilling the contents on the vinyl floor in her heavily ringed hand, the other hand steadying her, stiff at 45 degrees from her shoulder.

I could see her state as I approached her to shake her offered hand.

"Looks like a good do," I suggested, her gnarled tanned hand squeezing mine firmly. There was an adjustment in her stance without letting go of the worktop edge.

" How do you do, I'm Del Hants, Mrs Passendale I believe?"

I studied her as she replied advising I call her Monica.

"No plashe for shuch formality when one's a much valued helper," she slurred, ever so slightly, in a cultured well rounded tone and accent. "I'm ever sho grateful Del, can I call you Del?" her voice tinkled. "Apparently Bob would have done thish, but you're here."

Monica with a blue rinse, combed straight and curled in at her shoulders, was tall, powerfully built and upper class, if there is such a thing these days -- I firmly believe there is. Her teeth would never have got past first base in the State, they were badly aligned, her top brace full on out jutting. Other than that, she just oozed high born, wearing a form fitting, olive green, vee neck soft top, which proudly layered over stout and bulky tits, held high and firm, the undergarments frame clear to my practised eyes. The neck line wasn't low enough to show cleavage. She had a classic string of pearls round her neck. Her lower torso sported a plain, mid grey, light skirt to knee, exposing visible panty lines, which I guessed from the marks were not huge bloomers, almost briefs. Her bare legs weren't toned and her ankle bones non existent, her feet in dark brown two inch court shoes.

"You've all downed some booze," I chuckled, waving a hand at the multitude of empty wine bottles.

"We had to give Helen a good shend orf," Monica agreed sipping more of her wine. "Sheee shtarted thish group and ran a tight sheep, thish ish a bit of a releahse. Like shome? It'll not be cold....ah hah, yeshh there'sh shtill a bottle here in the fridge, ready opened....eh?"

I accepted a too full glass, catching the label reading Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc, hmm nice! Taking a sip after offering it as a token toast, I leaned against the worktop at right angles to Monica. Seconds later she had slid round to my side, her butt staying supported by the roll edge. Fuck! She smelled nice. Above the booze, there was a perfume, almost masculine, I got sandalwood, ginger, citrus and other exotic spirits but it damn well suited Monica.

Our hips nudged and I shifted slightly, but she closed the gap as she topped up her glass, having to lean down and away to extract the bottle from the fridge and put it back. Through the gap in the not quite closed serving hatch I saw movement, distracting me, finding Monica eased herself off the worktop and stood square facing me, our arms clutching wine glasses parallel and close. She wavered a little and before I put my other hand out to steady her, her groin thrust forward and locked onto mine until she backed off embarrassed I think, because of her inebriation.

"I wash going to ask you ash a practishing artisht, would you consider tutoring at our meetings?" Monica gurgled, finding a solid worktop to lean against, just as Jackie and two other ladies entered. "In fact it wash Jackie here that mentioned it."

Jackie got the gist of the subject ultra fast. The others left.

"Well I could do but I have one stipulation," I suggested, slinging my arm round Bob's elderly wife.

"So I'd have to be nude, knowing you," she snickered, grinning up at me. Monica frowned, I looked down at my friend's spouse and Jackie gazed at me, eyebrows high, mouth smiling as if to say -- the question has been asked...so? Was she offering to pose nude?

"Jackie pleashe. That's not what sheee meant....er Del," scoffed the boss lady.

Getting signals from Jackie, I bluffed. "Of course not. It is my favourite discipline, the human figure and one of the most demanding in art, but I assume there'd be other members present, so a clothed pose....that's if we are talking figures, would be OK with me."

"You do know I was a model and dancer Monica?" Jackie challenged.

"Yesh of courshe my dear. But anyway if Del ish up for it, we can work thingsh out I am shure," Monica replied, looking at her watch. "Oh dear, I'm afraid I've got to leave. My driver will be here. Tireshum council bushinesssshh at the town hall you know. I have your number Del if we take thish further."

Jackie and I helped her sort her things out, papers, two Tesco and one Harrods carrier bags. How the fuck she'd get through a council meeting without falling asleep...but that's her business, I thought as we guided her out, to her waiting, ticking over 1950 Daimler.

"Very interesting Del boy," Jackie giggled, her arm through mine as we went back indoors. "You going to take it on?" We reached the kitchen.

"Fuck yes sweetie, especially if you're going to model nude." I naughtily chuckled, getting stuck in sorting stuff to be packed away. "Tell you what I wouldn't mind if old Monica was the model either, she'll be great....nude"

"You dirty randy bugger.....Let's see what we can arrange then,"Jackie said mysteriously, fussing through to the main hall.

Chapter Three

"I heard you were a big hit with Lady Monica?" chortled Bob, over the snooker table in the Tory club.

"Yes, veeary porrsh," I chuckled, eyeing up a starter red. It middled the pocket, so I lined up the loose pink. That went in too. "Is she a lady?"

"Shit yeah. Big house, Romsey Road, after the bypass bridge. Royalty there somewhere."

I nodded and we got on with the game. His wife must have not mentioned the nude modelling chat.

My land line buzzed the next day.

"Er Del...is that your proper name by the way?" questioned the dulcet tones of Monica Passendale.

"It's Derek actually, hello again Monica, nice to hear from you?"

"Thank you. Apropo our conversation at our club last week...?"

"Yes, remember it well. Go on,"

"Any decisions yet?"

"Oh yes, I'll do it, small fee, just for you madam. Just joking."

"Excellent Derek. Come up to the house, have a coffee and we can talk details. Tomorrow at nine?"

After agreeing and consolidating which gate of two of 'the house' which I knew plus the coded tradesmen's entrance, she rang off a little abruptly. I didn't need payment knowing I would be entertained royally, if you get my drift and two hours out of my day, one a month?....well!

Bob and I played two frames of snooker, one a piece, then we went to his place, to advise on some paintings he and Jackie had purchased while away on holiday. They were ethnic art, clever in a way if you like that sort of thing. I suggested the best one, which she had loved but he had bought secretly without her seeing it, should be framed properly as against the cheap plastic stuff on it. We greed that I would do it for them, and I took it away, to return it the next weekend and mount it in a position Bob knew she would like. He gave me keys to their front door to get in and do it.

Madam Passendale certainly had a nice pad. Huge Victorian place, swish auto gates opened and I drove the gravel drive to park. She was waiting at the top of porticoed granite stars. We shook hands and I followed her tasty mature undulating bum indoors, through a long corridor and to a sumptuous lounge. Monica poured coffees and we chatted. I admired many contemporary paintings in the room, she had a good eye, but she said they were all her deceased husband Marcel's choice. We agreed dates, times and I offered to prepare an invitation email to be circulate to the members outlining my sessions, which Monica accepted.

"We could do that together Derek, here - now on my computer in the office. Save you fiddling at home and us exchanging email back and forth. I do so detest all this high tech stuff and no one talking to each other, don't you agree?"

Monica's office was a large room next to a study along the corridor, she told a maid something through a door as we passed, and as she sauntered gracefully ahead of me, I had great opportunity again of admiring her stately gait. She walked head high, her arms bent at elbows as if carrying something precious to her chest. She wore an opaque claret coloured satin blouse, which like my memory of our club encounter, was close fitting, emphasising all nuances of her upper torso. There were no brassiere straps visible this time, but her jugs were well supported and held high.

Her well cut pants, were beige, tight, with slightly flared legs and this time very visible panty lines carving over her full wobbling buttocks. They were high cut I noticed. At one point Monica stooped to pick up a stray leaf and there was a slender glimpse of skin and a black sliver of cotton above the waist band.

Her Apple computer was on and ready and I took over, having the same model myself. We formulated the text together, simple stuff really and I impressed her by adding some arty farty images to its body, all the time drinking in the same exquisite scents, which were of course fresh that early in the day. Although leaning on the desk I had no good views down her blouse. We printed a couple of copies for me, emailed myself with the attachment, leaving Monica to determine who she would circulate.

On the way back to the lounge we passed mostly stuffy family portraits and groups, stopping to discuss one or two. Then she took me upstairs, to show me two of her on the landing. One a head and shoulders, large portrait oil in stiff classical style, the other, a watercolour of her husband and Monica sat on the terrace one summer, in Hockney style but an unknown signature was clear to see. I was just thinking she'd be a damn good subject, only thing - I'd have to play down her prominent gnashers if I ever did one, when she nudged my arm.

"Come in here Derek," she said, crooking her finger, beckoning me into a bright airy...bedroom!

"This is a small sketch Marcel did of me," she giggled. "He was an aspiring artist really but never had the time, but he did that small effort from a photograph he took of me when we were at a villa with friends in Cyprus. What do you think...of the painting?"

I was amazed. The painting was a small oil, maybe 11" by 8", beautifully framed. It was definitely buck teethed Monica Passendale, in the fucking nude! She was on the steps from a pool, waving gaily, her tits in full view plus......a thick spread of pubic bush and a dark bush.

"The painting is superb Monica and so is, if I may say so, the model. I can see it's you,"I chuckled, it was a damn good piece too.

"Yes bit naughty don't you know. I like it for two reasons. Marcel captured a good likeness and it was only his second attempt at a piece in oils. That was oh what...twenty years ago."

"Magnifique," I oozed charm.