6 comments/ 31081 views/ 1 favorites Between the Lines By: Dreambeliever Michael and Ally worked at the same college. He was a relief teacher, (he would laugh at that on many occasions as he had been there 3 years now) and she was the librarian. Only he was allowed to call her Ally, to everyone else, she was Miss May. Michael was 24, Ally (Alison) was 39. Despite the age difference, they became friends, and they regularly shared coffee and laughter in the dining room at lunch time which brought disapproving looks their way by other members of staff. Secretly, Ally was the spark that fuelled Michael's fantasies. Today, Michael stood outside the doors of the library. He had been here many times before but not like this. His heart was pounding, and his throat was dry. Would she be there? Only one way to find out, he thought. Pushing the doors open quietly, he gingerly stepped inside. The cool air that greeted him was refreshing after the humidity outside. Sunlight streamed in through skylights, and high windows inlayed with stained glass of gold and rich earth tones made the light in the library soft and comforting. Michael glanced towards the librarian's station, and breathed a sigh of relief. She was nowhere in sight. Hurrying over to the shelves that contained the returned books, he began quickly looking for the one he wanted. After what seemed like an eternity, but was in fact only about ten minutes, realisation dawned on him, and as Ally turned the corner of the book shelves and saw him, she heard him muttering, "It's not there...it's not there..." "Hello Michael, need some help?" Panic rose in his chest when he heard her voice. His heart thundered and he found it hard to breathe as he turned towards her. The last thing he saw was the book he was looking for in her hand, and as he watched, time seemed to slow down. A few loose pages slipped silently from the book, and as Ally looked down, picked them up, and began to read, oblivion took him, and he gracefully fainted in a heap on the floor. Michael became aware of soft warm lips lightly brushing against his, he opened his eyes slowly, and, just outside his focus, he saw red hair. His lips tingled where hers had touched him and he softly spoke one word..."Ally." His arms folded around her and he pulled her into a deeper, more sensual kiss. Lips parted and tentatively their tongues greeted one another in a slow and languid dance. Her fingers fluttered across his skin, stroking his smooth chest and neck, before sliding along his jawline causing him to shudder. His mind was aware of nothing but Ally. The feel of her in his arms. Her scent. Her touch. Breathlessly they parted, and for a moment their eyes locked. His sapphire blue, her's jade green. In that instance a silent invisible message was conveyed between them, and they fell together in heated passion, their kisses filled with urgency. Pushing Ally back Michael kissed his way down her writhing body. His fingers brushed over her delicate soft skin, teasing at her ankles, the back of her knees, and her inner thighs. His touch was so light and yet every caress flooded her body with fire. He ventured closer to her glancing briefly up at her face. She had a finger trapped between her lips, her teeth gently biting it yet not quite stifling the whimpers and moans erupting forth from her throat. He moved forward, and flicked his tongue at the throbbing bud peeking out from moist swollen folds of silky flesh. She groaned loudly as his lips captured that bud in a kiss, and as he held firmly between his lips, it was at the mercy of his caressing tongue. Waves of heat flooded through Ally. Behind her eyes sparks ignited sending a ripple through her being, and as Michael's tongue delved deep between her folds, she shuddered, calling out his name as her release washed over her. Hungrily, Michael savoured her essence until her shudders ceased and he felt her fingers run through his hair. Moving slowly, Michael kissed his way back up her body until their lips once again joined in a slow languid kiss. Ally could feel him nestled between her thighs, and, as she held onto him she urged him inside. Moving slowly within that river of desire, his lips found the tender and sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder. He kissed and nipped as Ally squirmed beneath him, her fingers grasping at his body her legs wrapped round his dictating a new rhythm to their dance. Slow delicious movements became deep firm thrusts. Moans became gasps and cries as they rode this torrent of passion. Over and over their bodies came together, their movements in perfect harmony. Ally gripped Michael's back spurring him on as her nails pressed into his flesh, Michael rose, firmly holding Ally's hips he pulled her body further onto him. He was close, yet he didn't want this to end. He opened his eyes and looked down at Ally and at that moment she looked up at him. The look of perfect pleasure in her eyes was his undoing and he plunged into her body one last time as trembling and shaking they both burst forth into a flood of emotional ecstasy. The sweet oblivion of passion overtook him and he knew nothing except the tremors through his body and the explosions in his mind. In the distance he heard her calling his name, "Michael...Michael.." Slowly opening his eyes the world came back into focus. "Michael." He looked into her eyes. "Are these what you were looking for?" He glanced at the pages in her hand, the ones that had fell from the book. The pages that contained his fantasies about Ally. Inwardly she smiled as a look of embarrassment and fear flashed across his face. "What a lot of time we've wasted," she said, and smiled warmly at him. Realisation of her words slowly melted through to his mind as Ally leaned forward, and gently kissed him.. Between the Lines Thank you to Quoll for a witty title. * It was nearly closing time at the book store. I really had to make my selection and get the heck out of Dodge if I was going to buy anything. I didn't think the employees even knew I was still in the store. Most of them had retreated to the back room, intent on getting out as soon as possible after their work day ended. Sadly nothing was tickling my fancy, and mostly what I'd been doing was re-shelving books to their appropriate places. (Habits of recovering librarians die hard.) I ended up in the cookbook section, as usual, but all the descriptions of cream, eggs, and chocolate luxury were not doing it for me tonight. There, on the 3rd shelf, that book did not belong in this section. It wasn't a cookbook; about 12 inches tall, paperback, black with the title Hell Bound. I picked it up and flipped it open to see in which section it should go. It didn't take me long to figure it out when I read: His hand loosely grasped her hair as she knelt before him, looking up with doe eyes. She was nude, legs spread enough he could see how pink her bare pussy was; how slick and shiny and obviously ready for him. He reached down with his other hand and caressed a bare breast, his fingers skimming lightly over the nipple. She gasped against his wrist, her eyes darting to the hard cock in front of her face and back up to meet his gaze. His hand tightened in her hair. "Open." She licked her lips and parted them, as he slid his cock into her hot wet mouth. Oh my. My breathing was a little ragged as I pictured the girl on the floor as myself, felt the silky weight of my lover's cock filling my mouth. After a surreptitious glance around, my hand slid to rub my pussy through my jeans as I continued reading. His hand tightened in her hair, as she started a slow bob up and down his shaft, her lips tightened in a small o, her tongue laving the underside with each stroke. Someone had told her once the trick to an exceptional blow job was lots of saliva and eye contact. She looked up at him, letting him slide from her mouth, licking every inch. He growled and pushed back between her lips; taking control now, slowly, thoroughly fucking her mouth, filling it completely, occasionally making her gag. I could feel how hot my skin was, how turned on I was. I wanted to go buy the book, but couldn't seem to tear myself away. I was rubbing harder and faster. I started violently when the warm hand slid over mine, pulling me back against a solid and quite obviously from the erection pressed against my ass, male form. "Don't stop, and don't turn around." I smelled him then, a hint of aftershave and hot male, mixed with the scent of hundreds of books. I shivered. I felt the teeth on my neck, right below my ear. "Keep reading." His hand pressed more insistently over mine. His other hand slid up to cup my breast, fingers pulling at my nipple through my tee. I moaned quietly and relaxed against him. I couldn't have stopped if I wanted to. I want to watch you play with your pussy while you suck my cock." He stared down into her eyes, his hand still tight in her hair. "I want you to cum with me babygirl." She moaned around his cock, and moved one hand between her thighs. Her fingers dipped into her wetness, getting them nice and slippery as she started to rub her clit fast, trying to catch up. She could already taste the salty precum coating her tongue. Luckily she got so hot sucking him off it wouldn't take long, not to mention he was still playing with her nipples; rougher now, pinching, pulling, making her whimper around his thickness. His hand moved off mine, and slid underneath the waist band of my jeans, his fingers finding my clit immediately. My whole body was shaking against him. "Naughty girl, no panties, and a hot wet pussy," he whispered. He pressed my clit hard and I shattered into a million pieces. I sagged against him, the book now forgotten in my hand. He pulled his hand out of my jeans, kissed me one more time on the back of the neck, and then he was gone. I stood, knees quivering, holding onto the shelf for support. After a few moments I slowly made my way up to the front counter to buy my book, stepping into the line for the check out. I looked around a little, which one? Or maybe none of them, he could have left already. There were two about the right height and build in the line. I finally got to the counter, and handed the cashier my book. He scanned the title and then looked up at me. "Excellent choice. Let me know what you think of it then." I smiled at him and said thank you, still a little too strung out to make polite conversation. As he handed me my change I thought I caught a whiff of me on his fingers. I looked up, wide eyed, and he smiled enigmatically at me. I turned and walked out to my car, clutching the book to my chest. Could be, or maybe not. I couldn't be sure. I think I'm glad I'm such a voracious reader, I'll be needing another trip to the book store soon. Between The Lines Introduction This is the opening chapter of my first effort for Literotica and, as you read it, you'll probably wonder why I've posted it in this section. After all there is no wife -- loving or otherwise -- to be found here and, to be honest, no graphic sex scene either. I hope that you'll find it intriguing enough to be worth reading however -- and I promise that the reasons for it being here will become clear in a later chapter. I welcome comments -- but please remember that I'm a virgin at this - and be gentle! 1. "My wife stuck her foot up my arse during sex last night," I told them and then, after a short pause, "To be fair, she did come in and catch me fucking her sister." It worked okay and the 'stag' crowd laughed. Believe me, it wasn't all that easy being the compere/comedian filling in between the striptease acts at this place. I took a pull at the cigarette I was holding, (this was back in the days before the health fascists took control!) and waited a second or two. The cigarette had two uses; it was an excellent prop to help my timing and, by lighting it just before I went out front, it lasted long enough to let me know when it was time to leave and bring the girls back on. "As a matter of fact," I went on, "I met my wife in a place like this. Funny, really; I thought she was at home looking after the kids." That one went down pretty well, but the timer was burning down. There was just time for a couple more. "I got an e-mail today from a 'bored housewife looking for some action!' So I sent her my ironing." Louder laughter followed that, and even a slight ripple of applause, so I went for the big finish. "Okay, gentlemen! It's time to reintroduce you to the gorgeous Penny and Paula but first, just remember, when you're fucking the wife and she says "ooh baby, it's huge! Do not, I repeat, do not return the compliment!" I went off to much more applause than the weak material deserved, but it was soon drowned out with whistles and cat-calls at the appearance of Margaret and Deidre -- alias 'Penny and Paula.' This was their big number and it meant I had a good fifteen minutes to return to my dressing room and grab a small Scotch before I had to do the closing routine. The first time I'd seen them perform their routine had been a couple of years earlier and I'd seen it again a couple of times since then. Their first set, in the early part of the evening was pretty standard fare; dancing to music with a throbbing beat, they took turns at removing a garment at a time. I mean, I say 'standard,' but the girls moved so seductively that it was a guaranteed trouser-strainer. Even so, it was the second piece that had the all-male audience standing on chairs to get a proper look. They would step onto the stage in time to the quiet opening beat of Ravel's Bolero, balletic in their movements and dressed in the ornate costumes that were typical of flamenco dancers. Not looking at the audience, or each other, they would slowly move in circles around the stage and keep as much distance as space allowed between them. The girls did everything in perfect time to the music, using the eighteen parts of the piece (I'm not being clever -- they explained it to me!) to remove their clothes, until they were naked and ready for the blaring finale. That was when they met at the front of the stage, threw their arms tightly around one another, and engaged in the most sensuous kiss imaginable as the final, deafening note of the piece filled the room and the lights went out. Believe me; my description cannot possibly do it justice! It wasn't just that they were so beautiful; it was the sheer poetry of the act that made it so special. The applause was phenomenal and, when they returned for their final bow (they never took more than one), once more wearing their dresses, the place erupted. Okay? So now, try to imagine that you're a 'comedian' who has to go out there after that, calm the audience of some 150 or so extremely horny men, and tell them that the entertainment's over but the bar will be serving for another half-hour. So you think you've got a tough job? Okay, standard jokes when it quietens down enough; "I'm married to a stripper, y'know? Yeah, she takes her off clothes to tease me, takes all my money and won't let me touch her." There's a ripple of laughter, so: "Dating a stripper is like eating a chocolate bar in church: Everyone looks disgusted, but deep down inside they want some too." Slightly better, one more: "The wife and I were using toys in bed, she asked me to put the big 9-Inch one in her pussy. She said it felt great. Then she asked me to put the small one in her ass. 'What small one?' I asked. 'Your cock!' she said." That got me enough laughs to make the announcements, say goodnight, and get off the stage. I had a half-full bottle (See -- I'm an optimist at heart!) of Scotch still waiting for me in the dressing room but, despite the gags, I didn't have a wife to go home to. Closing rapidly on the big four-O, I'd been married and divorced twice. The first was a sweet girl who got fed up with me never being at home, and tired of my jokes. After three years she told me it wasn't the kind of life she wanted and, even though there wasn't anyone else, we split up and went our own ways fairly amicably. My second was a total slut who fucked loads of people, both male and female (well, I guess you don't have a lot of choice when you're getting loads of money for making porn movies!). The sex, as you might imagine, was terrific but, to be honest, there wasn't much else. She eventually left me for one of the producers, retired, and is now living in a tax haven somewhere or other. I wasn't bothered at the time because my career seemed to be on the verge of taking off. I was given a summer season at a decent theatre in a seaside resort. I had to tone the act right down, of course, because it was a family show: 'Bawdy, but not dirty,' was the phrase and I didn't have any problem at all with that. Halfway through the season, I got the chance for a TV appearance -- which turned out to be a disaster. Andy Warhol said we all get 15 minutes of fame. I got 8 minutes - edited down to 6! I could make a load of excuses: the audience was too 'middle-class,' the cameras spent too much time focusing on the audience's (lack of) reaction, and the host even got my name wrong! He called me 'Jack the Lad.' My name is 'Jack de Ladd' -- I'd had it changed by deed poll because I was pretty sure that 'Bert Smith' was never likely to be memorable -- and the asshole got it wrong. Afterwards, I went out to a bar and got myself steaming drunk. When you're in that state, asking a young policewoman if she was available for a stag night party isn't the smartest thing to do. I spent the night in a police cell and was lucky to get away with a small fine and a 'caution.' And that's when everything began to go really wrong. It's strange, but most comedians have egos as fragile as a politician's promise -- and I was no exception. My failure on TV made me seek comfort in a bottle and it wasn't long before my comic timing started to slip, the laughs became harder to get, and some of my bookings after the summer were withdrawn. The more that happened, the more I drank -- until the night I completely 'dried' in the middle of my main spot. I guess I hadn't got over the session in a pub earlier and I was a mess. Without realising what I was doing, I started using different material. It was neither bawdy nor dirty -- it was total filth! The producer brought the next act on quickly -- then came to the dressing room and fired me on the spot. My agent insisted on sending me to rehab but, by the time I'd dried out, he'd passed me on to a different agent. It wasn't long before I was back on the cabaret circuit, but this time it was smaller venues (and smaller fees!) even though the 'as seen on TV' tag was added to the publicity material. Five years later, I was still on the circuit. I'd get a full week at a club sometimes but, more often than not, it was a night or two with a lot of travel in between. I didn't have a home: I stayed in hotels because it worked out cheaper and my possessions were kept in a single suitcase. I wasn't fussy about the accommodation as long as they provided an iron and were capable of sending clothes to the cleaners and getting them back for when I needed them. So that was my life. I'd managed to control my drinking reasonably well but there were times, like that night, when the sheer futility of it all made me want to dive back into the 'water of life.' I had three days ahead of me with no bookings (I was beginning to have more 'free time' than a schoolteacher) and my hotel was only a couple of minutes away on foot -- so I chose to sit in the dressing-room and prove to myself that I could just sip Scotch instead of gulping it down. There was a loud knock on the door, it opened slightly and a voice said: "You got a woman in here?" "If I haven't, I've wasted thirty minutes of valuable time," I answered in my best Groucho voice. It was the manager of the club and he shared my love of Marx Brothers routines. "Well, I've a young lady wants to see you," he said, "Just wanted to make sure you were decent." I was about to snap back a funny remark when he stepped aside and the wonderful vision named Margaret (alias 'Penny') stepped into the tiny room. I vaguely heard the manager's voice calling, "You got ten minutes. Some of us have got homes to go to!" But I wasn't really concentrating. Let me tell you why -- and I'll stick to the name 'Penny' from now on. She was a striking figure -- 5'9" and put together perfectly. Her hair was long, wavy and reddish-brown; her eyes the palest green imaginable. Her face had a 'hard' appearance to it, except when she smiled -- that was when it changed from a beautiful statue to an impish girl. Her body? Well, we're back to 'statuesque' with that. I'd have guessed her top measurement at 38C -- maybe D -- or perhaps that was because she had such a flat stomach and such a tiny waist. Her hips were full -- my word would be 'womanly' -- and her legs were long and curved in all the right places. At that moment (I can close my eyes and picture it anytime I want to!), she was wearing a pair of jeans that appeared to have been sprayed on her, topped off with an unfastened, black leather jacket over a figure-hugging, white sweater and her feet were encased in a pair of trainers. She gave me a smile and I nearly spilled my very, very cheap Scotch. I went to get up and offer her my seat (there wasn't room for another one in there, but she waved me down. "No, don't get up," she said, "This won't take long." "That's what my wife used to say," I answered automatically, "Every damn time." It was a lousy line, but she giggled. I'd never heard that sound before in fact, I'd never spoken to her until now -- it was her partner who seemed to do all the talking for both of them. I desperately tried to clear my mind of the slight alcoholic fog that, a few moments earlier, had seemed so welcome as I said, "So -- what can I do for you, errr? "Penny," she declared, "that's what I prefer to be called. Is it okay if I just call you Jack?" What? Yes. Yes, of course!" Naturally, there was a tiny part of my brain telling me that I must be in with a chance here -- that unescorted females would only come to a performer's dressing-room for one reason. Okay, it had only happened to me twice in all the years I'd been in the business: the first was a woman so ugly that even a sniper wouldn't have taken her out; the second one so fat that her only chance of a threesome would have been with Ben & Jerry's. Penny, though, was so gorgeous that I'd have been willing to do anything she asked; which was why more than 99% of my brain was warning me to keep calm and try not to make a complete tit of myself. Looking a bit uneasy, she started off with: "I don't know if you've heard yet, but our act is splitting up. My partner's getting married soon, so we've only got one more gig before it's all over." As she was speaking, she looked so sad, that I couldn't help myself. "Well, if you're looking for someone to replace her, I have to tell you that I auditioned as a male stripper -- and they said they'd put me on the 'short' list. Bastards!" I said, and the reward was another burst of tinkling laughter. "No -- nothing like that!" she giggled as she reached into her large satchel and drew out a sheaf of papers. "I really want to ask you a big favour." Fortunately, I was able to keep my mouth shut and my middle-aged cravings under control by just nodding my head and reaching for another cigarette. "Em, what is it?" I asked, trying to sound casual but knowing I'd only have to look at her to agree, even if it was a thesis on grains of sand. "Well," she said hesitantly, "It's actually a pilot script for a TV show. My agent rated it highly -- and so did a pretty hotshot producer." "So why do you want me to read it?" "Because they both said the same thing -- it needs an injection of humour. I mean, I'm not looking for the kind of stuff you used tonight -- but I know you're a very funny man." "Well; thanks, but," "Look, please, Jack. Just have a read of it for me? I mean, you'll probably see the kind of humour it needs. And if you can help, I'm not expecting to work you nothing. You'll get paid the going rate and you'll get screen credit for whatever you do. Please?" I wasn't going to turn away, was I? Somehow, she must have known I had a couple of unoccupied days ahead of me, because she gave me a card with her number on and asked me to call her sometime on Tuesday. I nodded, a bit distractedly, turned to stub out my cigarette and, by the time I turned back again she was almost out of the door. I heard the manager's voice shout: "Would you mind getting up off that fly paper and give the flies a chance?" "Aw you're crazy. Flies can't read papers," I yelled back as I gathered my bits and pieces and headed off to the hotel. ** 2. 'I rode a bike for the first time in twenty years today. Looking back I wish I'd married her instead of my wife.' I put a tick alongside that one. 'I was in bed with my girlfriend the other day, when I accidentally called out the name of my first lover. It wouldn't have been so bad if the name hadn't been Electrolux Power Max Super Hoover.' No. A cross went beside it. I'd worked this club before and knew what they liked and what would be as popular as a turd in a swimming pool. So, as I prepared for the Saturday night performance, going through some lines I'd thought of (and a few I'd stolen from elsewhere), I was fairly confident that it would be a decent night. It was a mixed audience, but I knew they liked raunchy stuff; strangely, the women seemed to enjoy the 'sexist' ones the most. 'The doctor told me I'd become impotent for a while after my operation. I asked him exactly what that meant. 'Well', it's a bit like playing pool with a rope.' That got a tick, and so did: 'My wife came home with a vibrator, waving it about and screaming, "I don't need you now! I don't need you now!" Guess who had to put the batteries in?' I sorted the full list into a rough order, putting asterisks against the 'savers;' the ones that could rescue me if another one was poorly received, then sat in front of a mirror to practise the timings and the facial expressions. On the appointed night I'd made a call to Penny, but that had been some time ago and I was pretty much convinced I wasn't going to hear any more about it. My opinion was that the basis of what she'd written was pretty good. It revolved around a striptease artist who'd become the mistress of an ageing nightclub owner. His death, in a 'turf war' over the sex and drug supply in the area had come as a shock, but not nearly as much of a surprise as the fact that his will had left the club -- and the living area above it -- to her. Naturally, the will was being contested by his son and daughter -- even though they'd been left a lot of money, several legitimate businesses, and a house worth more than a couple of million. All of which would provide a good element of dramatic conflict. What appealed most, however, was that the new owner was set on rejecting the seedy past and trying to turn it into a classier venue -- one that wouldn't be using criminal activity to enhance its income. Once again, that provided plenty of opportunity for conflict, in that it was fiercely opposed by most of the staff who'd made good money in 'side-lines:' the bar staff from peddling drugs, as well as the waitresses and strippers who'd made extras peddling more personal services; and a couple of dodgy policemen who 'looked after' the place -- for a price. It was well thought out and well written, but both Penny and the producer had realised that there was something missing. Their view that it needed an injection of some 'throwaway humour' was almost certainly correct but, as I was making notes and adding some lines, I was still haunted by the thought that it still lacked 'something.' It was only when I was speaking to her on the phone, though, that I realised exactly what that 'something' was. "There's no sexual tension," I told her at the very moment the answer popped into my brain. "What? What d'you mean?" she snapped, and then, "It's set in a club that's virtually been kept going by sexual services of one kind or another, and...." "No, Penny; I'm talking about the main character," I explained, "We're talking about an attractive female -- still young -- attractive enough to have captured a guy who was surrounded by good-looking females. She's free, now -- the men are going to be interested and, from the way you've written her, I can't see her retiring to a nunnery!" "I don't know," she said, not sounding at all pleased. "Look, Penny," I said, thinking that I was probably blowing any chance of working with her, but determined to offer the advice I believed was right, "Any drama gets a boost when there's a couple in it who might just get it on together. Y'know, it's that 'will they -- won't they kind of tease that keeps the audience watching." "I'll have to think about it," she replied, sounding very much as though it -- and me -- had already been rejected; and then, "Look, I'll have to go. I'll think it over and I'll be in touch. Okay?" "Yeah, okay!" "Right. 'Bye, Jack!" And the phone had gone dead. It stayed dead until five minutes before I was due on stage that Saturday night. I had it on silent, but it lit up and vibrated noisily on the tiny dressing table so I quickly answered it. "Jack?" "Yeah, is that you, Penny?" "It is. Are you doing anything later?" "Not really. I could probably slip past the queue of eager young females outside the door if...." "Half-past twelve. I'll meet you outside." And then it went dead again! It wasn't one of my very best performances that night. Unprofessional though it may have been, my mind spent a lot of time wandering and my timing wasn't all that it should be. It didn't help that I was having another go at staying dry -- I hadn't had a drink for nearly a week. Fortunately, I had a heckler. Like most comedians, I love them -- and I have a vast store of put-downs that audiences love almost as much as I do. By the time I'd finished closing the show, there was just time for a quick wash before heading for the back door and, as soon as I stepped out into the cold night air I heard Penny's voice call, "Over here, Jack." As I looked over, I saw her leaning against the driver's door of an Alfa Romeo Spider which, even under the light of a streetlamp, was unmistakably a series 4 model. I didn't know whether to whistle at the girl or the car -- they were both gorgeous! Between The Lines "Admiring the curves?" she asked with a cheeky grin. "Mmm... looks hot and probably expensive to run," I replied. "Spot on... but what about the car?" she fired back as I opened the passenger door and squeezed my 6ft frame through the small entrance. I barely had time to settle in before she'd fired up the engine and, with only a hint of wheel-spin, launched us out into the near-deserted streets. It was immediately clear that she enjoyed driving and that she was more than competent so, even though some of the cornering had me swaying from side to side, I felt pretty relaxed. I would have felt happier if I'd known where we were going but, when I asked her, I was told to wait and see. Trusting soul that I am, I decided to relax, enjoy the drive, and give myself the treat of examining my beautiful chauffeuse. Seen in profile, her face still had that slightly severe look -- lovely but unapproachable -- but there was also a hint of vulnerability that was strangely appealing. She wore no make-up that I could see, and the flickering glow of the streetlamps seemed to highlight the redness of the dark, wavy hair that hung in waves down to her shoulder blades. Naturally, my gaze lowered beyond her long, elegant neck to the gentle swell of her breasts. The pale blue top she wore was just low-cut enough to reveal the upper curve; by no means an intentional tease, but it made for very pleasant viewing. There wasn't much else to be seen in the darkness of the car, but I'd already noted that her dark blue jeans were another spray-on job and the trainers on her feet were similar to the ones I'd seen on her before. "You'll know me for next time, won't you?" she asked, her face becoming beautiful as she smiled; and I suppose I ought to have been embarrassed at being caught so obviously staring at her, but I wasn't. There was no malice in her voice and, being both single and middle-aged, I'd long ago given up on hiding my admiration of beautiful females. "The scenery's much better on that side," I said, momentarily feigning interest in the industrial site we happened to be passing and then, feeling a little guilty, continued, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. She laughed, took a deep breath and leaned back a little before glancing at me and saying: "I've been taking my clothes off in public for the last four years so... yeah, I'm really going to be upset if a man stares at me, aren't I?" "I've been working with strippers for the best part of 15 years," I told her, "and you're better to look at, with or without your clothes on, than any of them were when they stripped." There was silence for a moment or two and I almost cursed myself for being so crass -- for sounding as if I was trying out a juvenile chat-up line -- and I saw her give a somewhat tight lipped glance in my direction before returning her attention to the road ahead. I wondered if I could say anything to retrieve the situation but, a moment or two later, we swung onto a side road that seemed to be taking us deep into the countryside. I'm a city boy at heart and all that greenery and open space tends to make me feel a bit agoraphobic but, when I put my window a little for some fresh air, I got an unpleasant surprise and hastily closed it again. "Bad move!" Penny said, trying to suppress her laughter, "there's a pig farm over there. Fresh, isn't it?" "Hmmm... I suppose it's one way to make money with a pen," I said. There was a short delay, but then she got it and laughed. The silence was more comfortable after that as we drove along what appeared to be ever-narrowing roads, occasionally turning off until, at last, we came to a huge set of wrought-iron gates that opened automatically when Penny wound down her window and pressed some numbers into the control box on the wall. I couldn't quite make out the name of the place, it seemed to be 'something-or-other Grange,' but I swear I've been on motorways shorter than the drive up to it. As soon as we drew to a halt outside what appeared to be a mansion of extraordinary size, a young man appeared as if from nowhere and opened Penny's door for her to step out. "Good morning, Miss Pendlebury," he said, very precisely. "Good morning, Mason. Thank you for waiting up. Is everything ready?" she replied and, when he confirmed that it was, she rewarded him with a smile, asked him to put the car away and told him he wouldn't be needed and to get some rest. "Well? Are you coming inside or would you prefer to stay out here?" She then smiled to me. "So... this is the garden shed. What's the house like?" I said, wondering what the hell I was doing there and what could possibly in store for me. "This is where you live?" "It's my parents' place," she answered as we walked through the enormous entrance hall until she guided me into a small, but comfortable room that she called the 'study.' "I'm not particularly fond of it... or them for that matter... but it's a useful enough place to stay while they're away." "Away?" I didn't know what else to say, I was totally at sea and, as it turned out, so were they -- on a round-the-world cruise. "Sit down, Jack," she gently instructed and pointed to one of the two large and very comfortable armchairs, "you've been very patient and very trusting." "I always was a sucker for a pretty face," I said, my brain still reeling, and she smiled as she said; "Okay... it's time for some explanations. I'd offer you a drink," she went on and, for the first time, I noticed a very well stocked drinks cabinet, "but I really don't want to. I want you to be stone cold sober because we have a very important meeting arranged for tomorrow morning. The producer and his entourage are flying in from somewhere or other and my agent's bringing them here to discuss the project at midday." I went to say something, but she just ignored me and said: "There'll be some other people arriving, too -- so you'll need to be at your best. Therefore... no booze! Okay? Anyway, I'll start off by trying to satisfy your curiosity about one or two things if you'll let me? Oh, by the way, feel free to smoke if you wish. I don't, but it doesn't bother me." Then she settled down on the other armchair and began. "My given name, as you probably know, is Margaret Pendlebury. Actually, it's Margaret Matilda Josephine Pendlebury. My parents, as you can tell, are obscenely rich. My father's a retired merchant banker and mother writes romantic novels. I'm their second daughter; a bit of an after-thought, or an accident perhaps because they were already planning early retirement when I arrived. "Anyway, they bundled me off to boarding school at the earliest opportunity and took very little interest in my growing up. I think they were a bit surprised that I wasn't very 'academic' and utterly shocked that my main interests were drama and dance. They wanted me to be like my sister -- to marry someone wealthy, settle down and have a family. Actually, my sister married a politician -- a Member of Parliament -- and they both cheat on each other unmercifully. They've got three children, although God only knows which, if any, are actually his. "I suppose I was a bit rebellious. You wouldn't believe the number of times they've threatened to cut me off without anything -- about the same number of times I've told them they could shove it all up their money-cushioned arses, I expect. "Anyway, after I'd been through drama school, I did the usual rounds of auditions and so on, but the only time I close to anything worthwhile, I discovered that my father had agreed to back the production on condition that I got a leading part! That was probably the biggest row we'd ever had!" "I guess he may have been just trying to give you a head start?" I offered. "If you knew my dad," she began, then changed tack and went on, "Anyway, I left home completely, swearing I'd never return. I started working as a lap dancer-come striptease dancer and shared a flat with an old school friend who was working in an insurance office. Eventually, she came to watch me perform and loved the idea of being on stage. We worked out a bit of a routine between us and the act began. "We couldn't believe the reaction we got. Our agent got us better and better bookings and before long we were earning ridiculous amounts of money!" "I'm not surprised!" I told her truthfully. "Yeah, well... we both knew it couldn't last forever. No matter how hard you work at keeping in shape there's bound to be a time when... well, you know!" Then she giggled, "We'd actually worked out a routine using the finale of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture! Can you believe that? I'm not even going to tell you what happened in time to the cannon fire!" She could probably see my imagination going into overdrive by the look on my face, and that made her laugh out loud. "Has anyone ever told you that you've got a dirty mind, Mr de Ladd?" "Probably because I don't change it often enough," I said "So," she said, laughing, "That brings me to where Dee... that's 'Paula' by the way... met the man of her dreams. I'd already been working on the script -- for the best part of a year, to be honest -- and I asked my agent to take a look at it. The rest, you know." She leaned right back in her chair and fixed her gaze on me. I don't know why, but I suddenly felt very nervous. Then she said: "This means more to me than I can tell you, Jack." "I won't let you down, Penny," I promised. She smiled and I could almost feel my flesh melting into the chair, but she went on: "There're just three more things you need to know, Jack. The first is that you're staying here tonight and tomorrow you'll be wearing one of my father's suits." I went to ask the obvious question but she quickly assured me that it would be an almost perfect fit. "The second is that I'm... well, I'm a lesbian, although I'm not keen on that word. Dee and myself were more than just dance partners, if you know what I mean?" I just nodded, trying to hide any sign of disappointment because I realised that she was examining me very carefully indeed. "...And the third thing?" I asked, realising that she'd only dealt with two. "Ah... yes," she said, with a frown; then the frown slowly melted away and gradually turned into that wonderfully bright smile. "The third thing," she told me, as she stood up and reached out a hand, "Is that, like Dee, I'm not exclusively lesbian! In fact, since we're hoping to be partners in this project and we might end up working very closely together, I think we should get to know one another properly." I felt her warm hand clasp mine and allowed myself to be raised up from the chair. I was in a state of complete and utter shock as she curled an arm around my neck, drew me close to her beautiful body and whispered: "That's why I'm going to take you up to my room. I'm going to make sure we both get a proper night's rest," and she brushed her lips against mine before adding; "After we've fucked each other's brains out, of course!" To be continued...