Chapter 3

It took him four days to return to his usual grumpy self. “Oh, worn off has it?” asked Hilda

“Has what worn off?” he replied. Never ask a question that you don’t want the answer to. He hadn’t been aware that one or two people had ‘noticed things’.

“Whatever you and that woman ‘talk’ about to put you in such a good mood.” Hilda actually bracketed the word talk with her fingers making quote marks.

“I don’t know what you mean. I admit I thought she was a nuisance, but I find she is a delightful person to know.”

“Is that ‘know’ in the biblical sense?”

“Hilda! Of course not.” That at least was true; he was pretty sure that what they did was forbidden in the good book, or at least it probably would be if they had written about it. He didn’t know.

Three days later, Verity arrived again, determined, this time to deliver on the deal. Once again, he got in first. “I’m gratified by your willingness, honestly. And I truly wish to experience it; but one should not eat all the sweets in the shop at once. I wonder, well, could I take off your skirt this time? Would that be acceptable?”

Oh yes, Verity was sure that was acceptable. She had wanted to take it off the previous week, but thought that perhaps Simon would be embarrassed to be seen with his head between her legs. She really wanted to see him there. To see a man licking her parts with such obvious pleasure. She’d had that dream again, twice that week.

Both times it had been at the bus stop; only this time it was Simon. As it was a dream, it was Simon as a twenty year old; but she wasn’t complaining. She was no Spring chicken after all. Each time this young man had stood behind her, reached under her skirt and pulled down her pants, and then yanked off her dress. She was confused, even in the dream, at wearing a dress and a skirt. The first time she woke thinking “That will break the zip.” But dreams are like that. Then the man had spun her round, knelt and pushed his tongue in much further than was physically possible. She was surprised at the erotic dreams coming to her like a horny teenager, but she did rather enjoy them. The second time she had woken in the morning and tried to get her husband to mount her. But it was morning and he had work and spontaneity wasn’t in his make-up.

So she was quite willing to be undressed from the waist down, they were friends weren’t they? It wasn’t like they were strangers. “Would, you mind undoing your blouse too?”

“You want to see my boobs?”

“Do you mind?”

Here she was less keen. She wasn’t perky and pointy, she was more wilting and soft. Still... “Would you like me to take it off? It might be better, it will crease. And the bra?” How had she come to this so easily, with a man she had known for only a few weeks. Introspection suggested that she had a libido dammed up for too long and his rude outburst had somehow struck a cord. It didn’t matter, his hand squeezed her left breast as his improving oral technique slithered and slathered her ageing ... cunt. There! She had thought that word. She knew that’s what people called it, but she had never allowed herself to even think of using it. She revelled in being this brief, one hour a week slattern. Safe with a man whom she trusted, she let him bring her once more to an energetic and pleasurable climax; knowing that, even naked, he would not take advantage of her body. She would not be that unfaithful to her husband. She understood that allowing a man to lick her, to put his face closer to her pudenda than her husband had ever been (even though it was true that without glasses, Simon couldn’t focus on something that close) was a little unfaithful. But was it worse than the porn she was now aware he looked at? A debating point, perhaps? No, it was never likely to come up in conversation.

“Yes ... no, not so far in ... oh yes, that is just perfect. Oh, yes, that really is...” He listened for her advice, and gloried in the fact that, at seventy four, he was a sex god able to bring this wonderful woman to a glorious orgasm. This was only the third week, but he was now sure both that he had missed out on something great, and that he was being allowed to make up for it. She burbled as she came and then lay back.

“I suppose I look like a beached whale. “ she said

“More like a contented Countess.” he corrected her, “Or were you fishing for compliments? Perhaps I should spank you for being so forward.”

“Maybe another time. I ought to dress. My ... doesn’t sex take a long time?” They had been at it an hour and they had forgotten the time. Both began to remember the early days of their relationships, when a weekend spent in bed was not out of the question. They both let out a sigh at the same time, looked at each other and laughed.

Dressed, once more, no longer requiring him to turn around since she started entirely naked this time, she stood, smoothed her dress and smiled at him. This had all become something of an odd situation, but one she would not change. Next week, she was determined, to deliver on his biggest regret.

She unlocked and opened the door – to find herself facing Clifford Brown – the director – Marion Clandeboye – the current chief supervisor (they came and went with monotonous regularity) and, further down the corridor, some of the more alert inmates. Some had antennae for trouble, it made the day go quicker to hear a good row. Others had had suspicions about the private talks with an attractive young lady – to someone over seventy, anybody under fifty counts as young. Angelique was saying “Come on you people, we can’t have you cluttering up the corridor, haha!” but really she wanted to clear them out of the way so she could get closer.

“Mrs Lamb! A word if you please!” say Clandeboye. Before Verity could respond, and before Clifford Brown could take back what he thought was his rightful place in leading the interrogation, Simon spoke:

“I’d rather you didn’t treat me as an insignificant adjunct to the currently likely fracas.” While they were trying to work out what he was saying, he took the initiative. “We can talk in MY room if you wish? Less official, more reasonable, don’t you agree?”

Brown realised he had lost the control to Clandeboye, who had promptly lost it to Smith. “I think my office would be better.”

“As you will ... shall we? Lead on Macduff!” Simon replied, deliberately misquoting the Bard for fun. He could see it could be difficult for Mrs Lamb, but he was still on a high; and why not.

Brown led the way, followed – deliberately more slowly than necessary – by Smith with Lamb; paired as if they were detained by an armed guard. Clandeboye followed. In the office, Smith noticed a cup. “Oh, is there tea? I could do with a cup. I’m so parched from all the ... talking.” He deliberately left a slight pause before the final word. Clifford Brown, in spite of himself, liked Simon Smith; he was a smooth operator, no question. He must be good in bed, Clifford mused, and he had taken control and managed to swing tea and chocolate biscuits when these two should be apologising profusely. He would have enjoyed working with someone like Simon Smith. Clifford caught himself and got back to the subject.