Chapter 3: Sorry to hear

On the tube to work as I mulled confusedly over what was happening to me, I found myself thinking more respectfully of Uncle Albert. It seemed the old goat had known what he was doing after all. Apart from anything else, he had apparently saved my marriage.

Clearly in FUCK he had devised some kind of sexual super-drug. I compared it with what I had heard and read about drugs such as Viagra; they had had remarkable results in many cases, but surely nothing to compare with what Albert's invention had done for me. But I remained uneasy about what its effects might be, how long they would take to wear off, and whether I could handle them in the meantime. For instance, was I being successful in concealing from my fellow passengers in the crowded commuter train the rapidly firming stiffy that, in spite of all my exertions last night and this morning, was developing in my trousers? In particular, did the occasional glance I spotted from the very pretty girl sitting next to me mean that she had noticed something?

I had seen her before; several times, in fact, over the previous few months. She was already on the train when I boarded, so evidently she lived in some remoter suburb. She looked about eighteen, fresh out of school or college I speculated, obviously on her first real job in the City. She was on the short side, blonde, with a very pale complexion, beautiful blue eyes, an irresistible button nose, and, best of all, a very impressive pair of tits indeed. I always looked out for her in the mornings, and maybe once a week my vigilance might be rewarded. Until today, the highlight of this admittedly rather one-sided relationship had been the time I managed to sit directly opposite her and spent the entire journey stealing surreptitious glances over the top of my newspaper at her globes delightfully jiggling up and down from the motion of the train.

This morning, I had been pleased to see a vacant place next to her and had slid into it with alacrity. I soon regretted my choice of seat, however, as the journey progressed and my trouser bulge expanded. I was in an exquisite quandary. If I hid behind my newspaper, my incriminating lap was exposed; if I concealed the swelling by resting the newspaper on it, as I eventually felt obliged to do, I had no defence against the looks she kept shooting in my direction.

I thought my agony would end when she got off as usual at the stop before mine, but she chose today to stay on the train. I deduced she must have changed job. This seemed confirmed when we got to my station; as I got up to go, she appeared to realise at the last moment that this was her stop too and as I alighted I saw her very hurriedly gathering her belongings (an activity that involved bending forward so that her tits hung beneath her, a sight I was unfortunately in no frame of mind to appreciate). As I left the platform I noticed that she exited the train, looking rather flustered, only just as the doors slid shut. I did not see her after that; I was too busy trying to walk normally with the biggest erection of my life. So I did not notice as, keeping her distance, she followed me from the station to my office. She did not attempt to follow me inside; instead, she carefully noted the building and the name of the firm occupying it and set off to walk the half-mile back to her own workplace.

As soon as I entered the building I headed straight to the gents for a desperately needed wank. The spunk just kept coming, but eventually I ran dry. Only then, rather red in the face and feeling a little shaky, could I make my way to my desk.

Everyone was very understanding about my bereavement. Brian, my boss, readily agreed to my taking a few days off until after the funeral, so I spent the day delegating tasks to colleagues, rearranging meetings and generally ensuring that everything would be under control during this unforeseen absence from work.

"Sorry to hear about your uncle." It was the dozenth time I had heard these words, but this was different, for the speaker was little Connie.

Here a word of explanation is needed. When I call her "little" Connie, I refer to the fact that she is, maybe, five foot one in her socks. Ghanaian, twenty-two years old, with a pretty, round, ever-smiling face, she admittedly does not have the generous chest that normally so endears a young woman to me (she would be a fairly standard C cup I imagine). But anything lacking above the waist is more than made up for by an African ass of truly heroic proportions, amply supported by massive thighs. It was incredible to me that so small a woman could carry so much backside. She had been with us for three months and I had lusted after that ass from the second I set eyes on it.

Much as I cherished the ass, I had sadly to admit to myself that its days with us were surely numbered because its owner made no effort to conceal her lack of interest and commitment when it came to her work. Lazy and disorganised, she arrived late and left early. She was good company, and would chatter away cheerfully to anyone that would listen about clothes, clubbing, reality TV shows, her gorgeous sexy boyfriend, her family in Ghana, and all the rest of it. Work, however, did not appear to feature anywhere in her list of priorities.

Connie's normal manner with me, as with all men unless actively discouraged, was one of good-humoured flirtatiousness. I had, naturally, given her no discouragement at all so she generally looked on me as a friendly face; the rebukes I had occasionally felt obliged to administer following some more than usually flagrant neglect of duty were like water off a duck's back to Connie.

My bereavement brought out her nurturing instincts and she made me a mid-morning cup of tea and asked whether there was anything she could do in my absence. She was far too unreliable to be given any real responsibility but there were some minor but necessary tasks I asked her to perform — ringing clients to rearrange meetings, that sort of thing. She stood next to me and took notes as I sat at my desk and explained what I wanted her to do. It took longer than I expected — I had not realised how much information I kept in my head — and quite suddenly, tired of standing and ignoring a chair that was readily to hand, she sat on the desk in a way that displayed her ass to particular advantage. Its sheer bulk was such that as she sat it pulled the waistband of her jeans away from her back, leaving a clear gap in which I could dimly perceive vast curves of chocolate flesh of an astonishing muscularity and firmness. In almost no time I could feel yet another massive erection swelling my trousers. To conceal it under the desk I had to pull my chair right up, which of course brought me even nearer the ass. Only by a preterhuman effort did I manage to stay focused on what I had to tell her, and when I had finished I thanked her for her help, and the tea, and off she went to resume her normal function of distracting other employees from their work.

Meanwhile, I needed someone to help me complete a major board report so I went looking for Fran Stewart. Fran was our graduate trainee, at twenty-two the same age as Connie but otherwise different in almost every respect. Fresh out of St Andrews University, Fran was exceptionally bright and capable and obviously had a great future ahead of her. She hailed from a tiny fishing village on the west coast of Scotland and had the cutest accent to prove it. She stood about five foot seven with a nice figure and had a pretty, slightly freckly face topped by the most glorious long red hair. (Why is it that red hair looks so terrible on men but wonderful on women?) I liked her a lot.

And I am choosing my words here; "liked her a lot" does not mean "fancied her rotten". I suppose I felt quite paternal towards her. She had, strangely, never been out of Scotland before she came to work for us and from conversation over the months I had gathered that her upbringing was not only relatively sheltered but also, in many ways, remarkably deprived.

Falling catches and increasingly strict European quotas had put the local fishing industry into terminal decline, and for boat owners like Fran's father the times were desperately hard, but these troubles scarcely registered with the young Fran as she grew up in her elder sister's much-patched hand-me-downs. She knew that anything costing money was out of the question; but who needs fancy clothes and consumer durables? She had her library books, the ruggedly beautiful countryside, and long solitary walks when she wanted to think. These were the things she valued most, and they were free; as was something even more precious, the love and support of a tight-knit family. Her parents, recognising that their precociously intelligent little girl had the potential to go far in life, rebuffed her dutiful offers to help with household chores as her big sister was required to do. Instead they told her to study. Her abilities were a gift from God, they told her, and it was her responsibility to make the most of them. The young Fran asked for nothing better, and thus encouraged she cultivated a deep love of learning, together with an instinctive aversion to anything remotely domestic.

In short Fran, so far as she was concerned, had an idyllic childhood. Not until she arrived at university — incidentally the first person from her village ever to do so — and saw the possessions that her fellow students took for granted did it dawn on her that she had been raised in dire poverty. It was a sharp blow to her self-esteem, but not half so bad as when, after four years of diligent study with every prospect of an excellent degree at the end of it, she applied for jobs and found herself well and truly patronised by an incredulous interviewer from a major Scottish bank when she innocently remarked that she had never been to England. Worse yet, not content with humiliating her, the man added injury to insult by failing to offer her a job on which she had set her heart.