Chapter 2

“Your daughter has a nice house Ruthie,” murmured Herbie, strolling through to the conservatory, ogling his hostess’s very active butt in the same shorts she’d worn when first he clapped eyes on her; she wore a similar clean top.

“Why thank you kind sir. She’s got a good job and that’s saying something these days, being able to pay the astronomic sums the child minders charge. Her hubby does well too, working on the electricity pylons, lots of danger money.”

She brought in two mugs of tea and joined Herbie’s side gazing down the garden.

“So I got your text yesterday thank you,” he smoothed. “Bit surprised to be honest, but here I am and we are.”

“Surprised? You made the first mood. I half thought you would bring your buddies for an ogle,” she giggled.

“Could have but you know...”

“I know what you were talking about, about me at the pool,” she tittered. “And I can!”

Herbie spluttered his tea and patted his stained crisp cream button down shirt. The retired diplomat was a careful dresser, in fact a fastidious dresser, carrying on true colonial fashion even though his wife Deidre had died. The barber shop he had used all his mature life looked forward to him once a month, the church choir relied on his deep voice, his conservative club valued his presence as the now number three in the snooker team and numerous organisations looked to him to hold events and functions. His immaculately ironed shirt would probably have to be dry cleaned.

“Oh dear I am sorry Herbie” Ruthie joined him patting the shirt, having got some kitchen roll. “All my fault, shouldn’t have said ... it’s not on you shorts ... OK?” she told him stooping to inspect his tailored, sharply creased, knee length, light khaki dress short.

“Fine thank you Ruthie. Don’t worry about me, but you did shock me when you said you know and you can.”

“Want to see?”

“Er ... of course ... but where’s Lucie?”

“Out for the day. Mebin, her hubby’s company is holding an event, sort of family picnic thing and when it’s over he’s coming back here ... but that will be late evening. I’ve delayed my trip back to the smoke, knowing you were coming.

It won’t be long before I’m cumming in my pants, with all this close contact and views- he mused.

“I think it will be OK in here,” Ruthie suggested, glancing round the glass walled room. “We’re not overlooked.”

“Up to you Ruthie,” the upright British old colonial replied. She had told him she was a pro and did an act for private clubs and gatherings, recently a very highly paid event at the Presidents club in the Dorchester hotel, London which had hit the headlines for all the wrong reasons. He puzzled why she wouldn’t want to be seen in the privacy of a large leafy back garden in Redhill, but that was her business.

“Yes, sit down and enjoy. I’m not going to do the whole act, but just relevant to what you guys chatted about. Won’t be a minute.” she went into the house proper, returning fifteen minutes later, holding a full plastic tumbler of water and a tea towel; music playing from inside. The other thing Herbie noticed was a towel fastened round her waist. She wore the same sandals as per the leisure centre.

“Do you mind if I take a video?” he asked her, brandishing a device. “For the lads heh heh.”

She acknowledged with a smile swaying provocatively. Ruthie cast the towel aside and squirmed and shimmied to the rhythm easing a tiny pair of white briefs down and off her magnificent bum. She fumbled then stumbled apologetically when the tiny sliver of material caught in the sandals. His hand shook for a moment until he propped the camera against a pot plant on a table. She stood bare naked on her lower torso, square facing him, one leg in front of the other in a classic glamour pose.

He stared at her heart shaped trim of dense black pubic hairs, traces of stubble scattered around the image, the lower point leading to a textured double formation of inner labia with a markedly deep groove between. He licked his lips, seeing how her camel toe formed. Ruthie turned, her big hip swaying, not bothering that he could see between them when she stopped, twisting her upper torso, her legs a foot apart. Suddenly she jutted out her bottom, her back arched dramatically, her hands on the knees.

“The water Herbie. Get it and take part. Balance it on my butt yeah?” she huskily simmered, sliding her hands up her legs, her butt still projecting at him, her legs still planted apart. Ruthie’s upper frame was gently curved so her head and shoulders were near to where they’d be when standing. She was incredibly sinuous.

He gently placed the brimming tumbler on the bottom of her spine; a plateau of taut dark brown skin just millimetres further than the vee shaped indentation at the top of her arse crack. Afraid of knocking and spilling it, he had to concentrate letting go of the receptacle, his hands a blur of old age and nervous anticipation, but there it was – on it’s own, unsupported, quivering, shiny on a surface which wasn’t smooth but fine goose bumps. Herbie noticed an inch long, lighter brown scar three inches to the right, slightly lower on her glorious globes.

“How long... ?”

“ ... Can I stand like this? Depends on how tired I am really, it’s quite demanding this position, but once everyone has their photos and videos, like you’re doing, that’s it ... show over.” Ruthie stood up straight, the plastic clattering to the earthenware tiled floor, water all over. She grabbed the towels and proficiently mopped it up, then sauntered to where he’d jumped out of the mess, sitting down on the sumptuous floral cushion of a large wicker chair.

“Mop me up as well if you don’t mind please,” she suggested, handing him slightly damp towels and bending over, leaning the arms of his chair.

Herbie had a raging hard on at this point, a fairly rare event for the 63 year old, but not unknown. He felt it better to stand and eased up beside Ruthie’s bendy body. He started dabbing at where he’d positioned the water and then round and about then stopped.

“Come on Herbie, don’t be shy, I’m not that skilled to prevent it dribbling everywhere, mop me up please,” she snickered, flapping a hand under her and up between her splayed legs.

He gulped, looked at her wet shiny crack, the pink flesh of her palms beckoning and started wiping rather than dabbing further below. Ruthie wiggled her butt as his hand roamed through her crotch, telling him to go right through to the front and don’t miss any drops.

The towel slipped and he was piercing between her labial flaps suddenly with his fingers ... finding perhaps what she had meant as drops. It was more like a fine slime to him so he readjusted the towel and continued. Ruthie slung a hand round her and grabbed his bulging groin.

“Hey fella, think I’ve found a better tool for doing the rest, don’t you think?” she murmured.